


Thinner

by laurlovescookies



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Divorce, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Insecure Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, Lance is autistic, M/M, Protective Keith (Voltron), Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:10:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13901805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurlovescookies/pseuds/laurlovescookies
Summary: Ever since first donning their slippers Keith and Lance have been rivals in their ballet company for years. But Lance will do absolutely anything to receive the main role in a high-stakes production, and when Keith discovers a dark secret of Lance he will have to re-figure everything he ever knew about the boy, and their relationship. Klance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, no no no, it was too cold always  
> (Still the dead one lay moaning)  
> I was much too far out all my life  
> And not waving but drowning.
> 
> -Not Waving But Drowning, by Stevie Smith

It was an unseasonably-warm, bright September morning as Lance parked Blue, giving the relatively-new car an affectionate pat on the way outside. He inhaled the tarlike smell of hot blacktop appreciatively, already wistful knowing the temperature was liable to drop somewhere between Oh God and Why tomorrow. If you didn’t like the weather in Altea, Maine, you really only needed to wait a moment.

He squinted in the sun fast-walked towards the theater, Adidas bag bumping companionably in his side with each stride. Lance had automatically brought his practice gear with him, although he came to a slow halt in the parking lot when he stupidly remembered there wouldn’t be any actual practice today. A new production was due to begin soon, but Mr. Tagashi said in the memo that the troupe was only discussing this season’s show. He’d been infuriatingly coy when pressed for answers concerning their next production. Lance sheepishly continued on his way, curiously glancing at the posters on the studio walls. Still blank.

“Hey, Lance.”

Lance threw the boy advancing beside him a hideous look. Keith Kogane—petite, dark-haired and almond-eyed—smirked at him. Lance didn’t normally condone violence, but Keith made an excellence case for rethinking his policy.

“I passed your father on the way inside. He was throwing rocks at the stork.”

“Get bent, you son of a bitch,” muttered Lance angrily, stooping to tuck in his lace before hopping up again, jogging just a bit. Much to his consternation, however much he’d grown in a few weeks over the summer break and speed-walked, Keith’s stride was much-faster than his own. “I don’t need any lip from you today.”

He couldn’t afford to go postal in front of Shiro yet again; the leader of the senior troupe wasn’t above gauging dancers on their conduct as well as their talent when it came to assigning roles. Lance had once been shunted into playing Paris in a performance of Romeo & Juliet, wherein the unthinkable happened and Keith had been picked as Romeo. Keith, whom never once held a relationship because he had all the charm of an ill-tempered statue, had been chosen to play Romeo and Lance, whom fancied himself something of a Casanova, had never lived it down. His whimpers to Shiro and his vice-manager Coran had fallen on deaf ears, which was so unfair because Keith was every bit as mean to Lance (meaner) but just quieter about it.

He fought against Keith in the macabre duel outside the tomb with a little more candor than necessary despite the fact he was doomed to die, and the only consolation was that Keith died shortly after kissing Allura cast as Juliet. Lance had wanted to borrow her dagger.

“You seem a little more high-strung than usual,” Keith drawled as he folded his arms beneath his head. “Got on the scale and broke it this morning?”

“Don’t make me call immigration and have them send you back to whatever icy dark pit you spawned from,” Lance growled. Few things were quite so infuriating as Keith taunting him, and then flouncing blithely away as if Lance were nothing more than a shit dog yipping at his heels. “I hear they need more dancing bears in Siberia, Bosco.”

Keith slowly turned his head, and while the smile had not melted off his face, his eyes had become very mottled and cold. This was a look Lance had seen on the taller boy numerous times—usually before he got knocked down and kicked in the face. “I’m not the one who stuffs cake in his socks.”

Lance snorted. “I could eat a bowl of Alphabet soup and crap out a better comeback than that, shithead.” He was pleased he’d thought this one up whilst walking here. Few things were as annoying as having a blistering and devastating comment ready hours after you needed it.

“Jesus Christ,” Pidge groaned from somewhere behind them. “For God’s sakes, just fuck already.” A relieved Lance waited for her as she fell into step with him, giving him a very cool look over her large glasses. “Jesus, every fucking day.”

“How was Italy?”

“Fine, although it was weird not listening to you two’s foreplay all damn day for two weeks.” 

“Bite me.”

“You couldn’t afford it, you ho,” she said affectionately, and Lance couldn’t help but laugh as he lightly punched her arm. He’d missed this.

“Why did you bring your bag? You know we’re not actually practicing anything today, right?”

“I…wanted to show Coran that I’m always prepared. Like the Boy Scouts.”

“You were a Girl Scout, Lance. I remember because you were in my troupe. You begged the Scout Leader to let you in.”

“Hey, I rocked that sash and beret. And I sold more cookies than anyone else.”

“That’s because you look like a starving orphan shivering outside in the cold when you want to.”

“Incidentally, that’s how Lance landed most of his roles,” called Keith as he hurried up the stairs. He disappeared into the building before Lance could shriek at him.

He gave his copyrighted sad-eyed look to his much-shorter friend. “Did you learn any good Italian profanity while you were overseas? I’m started to run out of clever Spanish witticisms my Cuban immigrant grandmother uses watching Wheel of Fortune.”

Pidge’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I’ve heard some you’ll never be able to un-hear. It’s fascinating because so many of these words have meanings with no real English equivalent. But I’ll give it a go after our meeting.”

“I love you.”

“Te amo too.”

They headed inside, a blast of arctic air-conditioning ruffling their hair. Dancers wandered past the theatre and locker rooms, trooping down the steps for a tiny classroom in the basement usually reserved for AA meetings. The clammy, wanly-lit hallways were full of newly-tanned people talking amongst themselves, mostly speculating as to which ballet the troupe was performing this year. Coran had dropped no hints, which possibly-meant it was a newly-written ballet.

Lance headed in the classroom to his usual seat in the back far away, waving at the brown-skinned, fair-haired girl smilingly approaching with a little swoop in his stomach. He’d long ago given up any hopes of dating Allura, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t hypothetically kick him down the steps without Lance giving her a “Kay, thanks.”

“Hey, ‘Lura. How was England?”

“Oh, fine,” She said dismissively, plopping down in the seat beside him and crossing bony legs, rapidly waving her foot. “Everyone here thinks it’s sooooo cool that I come from Wessex, but all my relatives back in ye olde countryside think it’s sooooo cool I live in America. Well, not my aunt, but then again she spends so much time sneaking into the liquor cabinet I’d be amazed if she has any brain cells left.”

Lance laughed as Pidge sat behind Allura. “God, that sucks. What do you think we’re getting this year? God, I hope it’s not Swan Lake.”

“But it’s so beautiful!” Hunk piped up eagerly from across the room.

“Yeah, but it’s also depressing and overdone as heck. Hey, Hunky-boy. How was Samoa?”

Lance was starting to get a little jealous of having to ask people how they enjoyed their vacations in exotic countries overseas. Most families whom could afford to send their kids here had a little extra money in their pockets, whereas Lance’s family slept in a tiny one-floor house. He never could’ve afforded dancing lessons for virtually all his life had his abuela not stepped in with her savings, claiming that she and her late husband hadn’t come to America not to see their grandchildren not follow their dreams.

Hunk—incredibly tall, muscular and plump, someone whom defied every stereotype of not being a ballerina—came to sit behind Lance, and they clasped each-other in a warm hug that effectively knocked the wind out of Lance. Hunk’s overly-affectionate cuddles could crush rock, but Lance had missed his friends so much during this dull vacation he could scarcely care.

“Well, can’t be The Nutcracker again, performance time won’t be until after Christmas this year,” Allura reasoned as Hunk sat beside her. “And I think the studio in Metter is doing Sleeping Beauty, so no way Shiro or Coran is having that.”

“I heard we might be doing something new,” Pidge began. “But I—“

“Good morning, everyone!” Coran trilled, as he strode in, clapping his gloved hands together. Those still standing hurried into seats as he strode to the front of the whitewash board, twirling the curly-ends his orange mustache. Coran’s legendary meticulousness of that mustache had Lance slyly suggest to his howling gang that Coran’s wife had in actuality married that mustache, and Coran was tolerated because he carried it around.

Shiro slowly entered the room and Lance sat up a little straighter. His spiky black hair had a white streak surging through it like thunder, and everyone wondered if the growing discoloration was the result of too-many years’ strain in a deceptively-demure career. Still, though his young face was prematurely lined he had kept himself in excellent physique.

Though ballerinas had notoriously short careers and Shiro no longer purchased a new pair of shoes for everyperformance as his pupils did, he was still was the headmaster of the academy whom instructed master and young professional classes only. Spaces in this program were limited, and hard-won privileges amongst those ballerinas whom had been in his performing arts school since they could walk. Lance glanced down at the initials he’d carved on this desktop some time ago, tracing the indentations. 

“I hope you have all enjoyed your vacation, but not fallen out of practice,” Shiro began reprovingly. “I’m sure you all kept in good shape by doing the daily stretches I assigned when we last met.” There were some audible snorts and furtive glances, smiles. Keith turned in his seat and smiled mockingly at Lance. Lance pretended to reach into his shirt pocket, and withdrew his extended middle finger. Coran rolled his eyes and sighed a long-suffering sigh.

“Before we begin I have the pleasure of introducing a dear friend of mine.”

Shiro gestured to the door, and a young, silver-haired man with slightly-lined but still reasonably-attractive features trailed in slowly, smiling. Lance thought he would make a good evil-mastermind in a spy flick. “This is Mr. Lotor Zarkon. He will be taking on much of the stage directing responsibilities for this performance, for reasons we’ll share with you shortly.”

“This season’s ballet,” Coran announced, positively quivering in excitement as he began to pace. “Has actually only been performed once before, perhaps twice in its old, old history. You likely have not heard of it.” He clasped his hands behind his back, smiling broadly. “It’s called Silvio y Angeline. It’s a romantic story about a lonely little girl named Angeline and a wind-up man created for a by her uncle, who is an inventor and a wizard.”

“Sounds kind of like The Nutcracker,” Lance remarked, before he could stop himself.

Coran coughed delicately. “Angeline is a little girl who is stricken by a disease at a very young age,” he continued. “And her wealthy family keeps her shut in as a virtual invalid. She has no friends, so her uncle takes pity on her and creates loyal servant Silvio out of wood and glass. Silvio does not have a heart, but he is a good caretaker and does everything Angeline asks of him. Still, the little girl grows up into a beautiful maiden—“ He gestured at a cluster of ballerinas, who giggled. “—and she longs for a new companion. Her uncle obliges this wish by creating another moving doll for her, and poor Silvio is left forgotten in a closet. Alone for the first time in his life, Silvio spies on Angeline and her new friend and realizes that he is very jealous. This is not helped by the fact that a nobleman has approached Angeline’s father for her hand in marriage, despite that hand’s innate fragility.”

“Silvio concocts a plan to obtain a human heart so that he might be with his true love forever.” Adds Shiro.

People uncertainly glanced at each other during a growing silence. “Well? Does he succeed?” Someone asked at last.

Shiro smiled sadly and shook his head. “No. Silvio is smashed into pieces by a mob.” There were some troubled rumblings and quiet noises of dissent. “The nobleman is accidentally poisoned by the female doll, whom Angeline truly loves, despite her wickedness.” 

“Wha—the girl is gay?” Lance asked, landing his chair legs to all fours with a thunk.

“That is not important,” Coran snapped. “What matters only is that Angeline cherishes the porcelain maiden who is determined to kill her and steal her life.”

Yikes. Sounded like something out a horror flick. Well, if you want to break the traditional route, there’s the way to do it.

“We will be enlisting help from the youth ballet academy program here, of course,” Shiro continued. “In the first act, when we are introduced to little Angeline. And there will be lots of little children dancing before we come to Angeline’s sickbed.

“But obviously we must have a Silvio and a grown Angeline. Secondary roles for this production include the wizard uncle—whom will be played by Coran,” Shiro dictated with a smile, and Coran bowed graciously as the troupe broke out in applause. “And the nameless nobleman. The wicked girl doll’s name is Fulvia, and she enjoys the title of main antagonist…she creates enchanted china ladies as a sort of army to do her wicked mischief. Runner-ups to Fulvia or Angeline may become one of the Twelve Dark Dolls, who later dance with a troupe of rowdy soldiers. And obviously we will need understudies for both roles, so two of you ladies will train accordingly.”

“There is also the mother, nurse, and father….but perhaps you’d better examine the choreography books and story summaries to get a better idea. After that, we’ll take a look at a recorded performance so that you know our expectations.” Said Coran, rifling through a dusty box waiting on the front desk.

He passed the books to the front of each row of his seats, and Lance opened his immediately, considering the concept-illustrations of Silvio thoughtfully.

He would settle for the nobleman role if anyone but Keith got Silvio, but that wasn’t likely. He and Keith were both too good for neither to get prime role. Silvio kind of looked weird, all stiff and unnaturally poised, like a statue. Not what you wanted in ballet.

Soon afterwards, Coran slid an old videotape into the classroom’s rickety television, pulled down the overhead, and turned on the projector. Judging by the quality of the recording, it had indeed not been performed for some time.

Lance thought that at least it wasn’t a boring ballet, even though it was like The Nutcracker in that there was more prancing than plot. He watched carefully as the soldiers rushed across the stage and forced poor Silvio to his knees. They then dragged him away behind a tree and Lance winced as bits of glass and wood went flying everywhere. Geez, not something you showed the kiddies. No wonder the composer didn’t have this performed much.

At one point it looked like Silvio and Angeline were going to run off and be happy together, but then Fulvia had to ruin everything. Nasty-ass creepy doll.

His hand shot up the moment the televised audience burst into applause at the finale. His leg thumped up and down as Shiro turned the lights back on. “Um, excuse me Mr. Takashi? If Coran’s playing wizard uncle dude, did you already pick out who’s going to play whom?”

“Actually, this time we’re going to audition for specific roles. I know, I’ve seen you all perform for years,” Shiro added mildly, waving his hands as the classroom began tittering. Lance glanced over his shoulder at Hunk, who looked completely baffled.

It was common knowledge to the studio that Shiro despised auditions and the stress that came with them, nor did he approve of the fact that people’s performances only seemed to heighten when they were vying for a particular part. Some crap about giving it your all 110% all the time, or something—Lance had forgotten.

Shiro had a pretty unorthodox style in that try-outs came maybe just a few short weeks before production, despite the fact that practice went on for months beforehand. He liked everyone to learn and practice each other’s choreography, mainly because he claimed that in doing so made everyone flow a bit more harmoniously on stage. “But did I not mention this performance will be especially significant?

“First of all, dust off your fundraising skills—we,” Shiro said smartly, lip curving into a coy smile. “—are going to perform this in Moscow.”

A deathly silence. Lance stared, uncomprehending. Then—

“Moscow?” Pidge squeaked. “Like, Russia?”

The room exploded into titters, gasps and exclamations; Lance couldn’t resist looking to his right. Keith looked positively stunned, frozen in his seat. After a moment a small, dazed smile appeared on his face and began to grow—it was lopsided and made him look slightly clownish. He wished he had a camera.

Russia. Whoa. He’d never been abroad before. Cool. He was a little disappointed that the only people in the audience would be communists, unicycle-riding bears, and unicycle-riding communist bears, but still. He worried his bottom lip, nibbling thoughtfully. Travel fees would be a bitch, but even if he’d much rather be performing in a place like Japan, Moscow was the ballet capitol of the world.

“Settle down, settle down!” Shiro laughed, waving his hands. “Now, I’m sure you have lots of questions, so please give Mr. Zarkon your full attention.”

Shiro’s companion bowed. “Good day to you all,” He said, in an richly-accented voice. “And might I say before I begin that I’m flattered to be surrounded by this talent. Such young promise.” 

“Some of you might already be familiar with this gentleman and his work,” Coran chuckled, giving Lotor what looked-suspiciously like lidded bedroom eyes. “Or of his school, the New York Academy of Performing Arts.”

The titters died down almost immediately. Shiro continued, “He hails from Moscow and his services have been enlisted from Bolshoi multiple times. Lotor has led over a dozen of hopefuls such as yourself to national championship and critical acclaim.” 

The man bowed his head in gracious acknowledgement.

“While I do trust Shiro’s judgment, I will be looking in on the auditions as well. As Bolshoi’s roses are plucked,” He said languidly, prowling about the classroom like a sleek and well-pleased pussycat. “With the greatest of care. For this tremendous honor,” he clutched his aloft fist in emphasis, “Is something the very best foam at the mouth for. Keep in mind your fellow students in great Russia would gladly sever limbs following their performances in turn for the opportunity. But the honor is not your only incentive to do well.

“To my two stars, Silvio and Angeline—should your performance be as spectacular as Shiro promises it will be, you will receive assets to advance your dancing career.”

The room was now so silent a pin dropping would have broken the sound barrier. Lotor grinned, dark eyes knowing.

“I am offering a full, two year scholarship,” he began, “At my academy in New York City so that you may train among the best in the world.” There was some collective gasps and Lance nearly fell out his seat. “Should I see you continue to excel, I would be pleased to offer you an extension.” 

Lance’s mind had neatly wiped itself blank. A second later it was whirring at full speed.

He was approaching graduation this year and had certainly combed through college pamphlets. Of course he ordered one from NYAPA, though he pilfered it from the mailbox like a bad report card. But tuition was over fifty-eight grand a semester if you were fucking in-state!

Lance didn’t even wanna think about numbers when you took out-of-state tuition in account. One year at that college would wipe out his tiny funds and set him back thousands of dollars in debt. 

There were other schools, and other far, far more practical alternatives then looking into performing arts as a career, anyway. But Lotor’s school was one of the best damn performing art institutes in the country, on par with Ivy League standards as far as drama academies could go.

Holy. Crap.

Keith’s arm flew up at the same time Lance’s shot up like a rocket. Masking a smile behind a small cough, Shiro pointed to the former. “Yes, Keith?”

“What are the requirements for playing Silvio?” Keith blurted out. “How tall do you need to be?”

People anxiously tipped forward, nails digging into flesh.

Too tall, too short—the dancing business was blunt and unforgiving. Didn’t matter if you could dance perfectly if you didn’t look the part too.

“Silvio does not have a height requirement, though it is generally expected that he is a bit taller than his female counterpart,” Lotor said mildly, and tense shoulders began to slump a little. Alfred saw five-foot-five Pidge bury her face in her hands. “Next week, Shiro will begin to drill you in some of the routines, to give each of you a taste of what I’m looking for. Be warned,” he added lightly, and something sickly-sweet began trickling in his honeyed-tones. “That as this performance may be the most important in your lives, I expect your full dedication to this program.”

Shiro cast Lotor the tiniest of frowns, but beamed and joined in when the room burst into applause. Seconds later the class was dismissed.

“Lance, Keith.” Shiro nodded at them as they were heading towards the door. “A word with you two.”

They tentatively approached the desk, and Lance fought to keep his heart from sliding up his trachea as they did so. Shiro contemplated them both carefully.

“In all my years at this studio, I’ve never had more dedicated students than you two,” Shiro said softly, resting his chin on intertwined fingertips, teeth showing in a charming, proud smile. Lance loved it. “I know how much this opportunity would mean to the both of you, but needless to say, there’s only one for the dancer who plays beside Angeline.”

“What are you looking for?” Keith asked again. 

Shiro hummed quietly and studied them both, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, tongue just wetting his lip.

“….I could see both of you playing the part,” he confessed, entwining his fingers and resting his chin upon them.

“Keith, I see in you a Silvio whose movements are passionate, executed as magnificently as expected of the Bolshoi Theater.” Keith flushed scarlet and Lance would’ve loved to sock him. “And Lance, in you I see a Silvio passionately in love, lighting up the entire room with a glow as to convince the audience of his devotion.”

“You would both dazzle us all, I know,” Coran added.

“This will not be an easy decision,” Shiro said ruefully. “I am almost glad that there will be some great delay before the auditions themselves…but knowing the both of you, it will still be incredibly difficult.”

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes,” said Keith just as Lance said, “You can count on me!”

“As you saw in the production, Silvio progresses from very slow, delicate, and controlled movements to something wilder, faster, throbbing with passion and purpose and life!” Geez, but Coran could be such a queen.

“While I realize the two of you are each very good at executing one form, if you cannot be both, neither of you will earn the part, I’m afraid. You are both sufficiently taller than all of the ballerinas in the troupe, so you pass there…although you must keep in mind that Silvio is very put-together as a machine,” Shiro said, slapping his bicep emphatically.

“That is what he’s built as, his tragic and inescapable fate. He is slender and muscular, which is why I must remind you two to be atop your physical forms.” There was the slightest of pauses before adding gently, but pointedly: “And to keep your diets ship-shape.” 

Lance turned bright red.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a glance at Lance's personal life and his aspirations to become a Danseur Nobel, which is the male equivalent of a prima ballerina in a company. 
> 
> For those of you whom have seen Voltron season 5, we discover Lance has three siblings named Marco, Luis, and Veronica, whom are referenced here. This chapter has trigger warning for mental illness and a hinted-eating disorder history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road

When everyone had left the studio they reconvened, unironically, at a McDonald's Playplace. In the net-encased play area Pidge generously called a lending library of germs, little children shrieked and waved from behind plastic domed windows in brightly-colored elevated tunnels. Lance watched a scrawny boy carefully mountaineer up a long slide by gripping its sides, giggling as he invariably slipped down three inches for every two he gained. Lance grinned a bit wistfully. "Hey Pidge." He pointed to the plaster Ronald McDonald clown, whom was holding his yellow-gloved hand aloft the _You Must Be This Tall_ height rod. "Maybe you should take advantage of the fact that you're still short enough to hang out in the kids area. It's what I'd do."

Slurping her king-sized coke, Pidge just flipped him off from where she stood apart from the line and they all laughed. Lance approached the cashier, swiping his glistening palms on his pants as he did so. It would be nice if ordering food weren't an existential crisis. If he were shopping for a new house he'd have one in a hour with the right money, not caring in the least about words like _paneling, paint, grout or window treatments_. That was just fluff. But mama never sent Lance grocery shopping anymore, because what took the average person thirty minutes took him three hours.

Lance ordered a Happy Meal, and shrugged off Allura's snickering. "Say what you will, woman, but you _know_ you jelly. You know you cried out in your soul for a toy." He gestured to the Pixar movie posters advertising that season's children's meal theme.  "And know once you see mine you'll be prostrate with woe, wringing your hands and gnashing your teeth and offering me your firstborn for that toy. Well, tough luck."

 

Lance didn't really care (much) for the toy, but it was excellent subterfuge just the same. Portions sizes in a Happy Meal were much smaller than in a typical small serving at McDonald's: A child's-sized portion of chicken McNuggets and fries equaled just 310 calories. Lance had checked two calorie-listing sites on his phone in the parking lot, and again on the menu. The apple slices (35) were a harmless addition, but Lance ordered a large diet coke just the same to fill up on.

 

"While I'm mourning and weeping in a valley of tears, Lance, how about I send a photo of you and your Happy Meal to Keith?" asked Allura innocently, aiming her phone at him. Lance squawked, abruptly ducked behind his tray and held it aloft like a shield.

 

"Allllluurrra? I'm not saying I will kill you and everyone you know if you do that, but I'm not saying I _won't,_ either."

  

When Lance received his food everyone scooted into a booth. Lance was grateful for his wallet's sake they hadn't picked Panera for lunch, which was a popular haunt for ballerinas in their troupe to pick over expensive salads. Thankfully a few wrinkly dollars had appeared in Blue's cupholder that morning and Lance thought fondly he could guess the culprit. 

 

As everyone tucked into their food Lance peeked inside his yellow and red box, face falling. 

 

“They left out the toy in my Happy Meal. I want to die.”

“Wha?” Hunk choked out in-between a generous fistful of Big Mac. _“No.”_

"Funny," said Allura mildly as she helped herself to the salad Lance wished he could've afforded. "I don't _seem_ to be paralyzed with grief."

“That makes this a Crappy Meal,” Lance said flatly, reluctantly pushing his tray away. “They assume just because I’m seventeen I don’t have feelings. That’s discrimination.”

 

“That could’ve been me,” said Hunk sadly, shaking his head. “You should sue. If you can sue over too-hot coffee, you can probably sue for mental anguish." 

"I think this confirms my theory about Keith," Lance complained, overturning his bag to dislodge spare fries. "Some unsuspecting McDonald's employee once forgot the toy in his own Happy Meal when he was a little kid. That's why he looks so cheerful all the time."

 

"He's probably had a grudge against humanity ever since," agreed Hunk, and Lance closed his eyes as he put a too-hot fry in his mouth, tasted the salty, mealy surface, and _sucked_.

 

"How in the world do you eat so much and stay so small?" Allura asked Pidge in amazement, face scrunching up. She watched with an awe that bordered on reverence as Pidge grazed through her first five McNuggets like a starving bear shortly before hibernation. 

“I’m a scientific anomaly," said Pidge thickly, gouging out sweet and sour sauce packets with her meat. Lance contemplated his own four small McNuggets, which were wholly delicious when you conveniently overlooked their synthetic meat paste origins. "Inside, I'm a black hole. I'm dedicating my body to science when I die."  

 

Lance decided to steal a fry from Pidge's plate, if only because poached food tasted infinitely better then anything. Pidge neatly smacked his hand away. “Ouch! I'm guessing that black hole is stationed where your heart should be, you bitch."

 

"I think every ballerina in class this year is going to be like that. Literally like Silvio," remarked Allura. When everyone shot her a curious look, she explained, "You know-heartless. Get it?" She laughed weakly at her own joke. 

 

"'Lura, the other dancers are probably going to be more like Fulvia: A honey badger who don't give a shit what she has to do to get what she needs." said Pidge, leaning back in her seat. "People are probably going to start leaving tacks in each other's shoes by tomorrow."

 

Everyone winced. "We've all known each other for years now," Hunk said uneasily, and the Lance's taste buds steadily seemed to evaporate just as he was about to enjoy bitty-green apple slices. "It's the same rodeo with every new production: Everyone wants the star role, everyone can't _have_ the star role, and everyone shakes hands after the role sheet has been posted. And then everyone sits back and watches Lance and Keith start fighting even when they both get cast as soldiers."

 

"Shiro cast Keith as soldier number three and me as soldier number four during  _The Steadfast Tin Soldier_!" Lance erupted, banging his fist on the table. The still-sore edges of that particular wound throbbed. "That was blatant favoritism at work!"

 

Hunk rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I think the way you two insist on taking the time to gouge the other's eyes out each and every season is your weird way of saying you care. But the only dancers just aren't as hardcore as you. Which is saying something, considering how grueling ballet is by itself." Everyone toasted to that with grim smiles. "To sadomasochism! We all get that only a few of us are going to make it further then this. That's why this is our call to support each other." 

 

"But this production's competition is going to be as personal as it gets. That scholarship package? Worth six figures!" Suddenly Allura glanced at Lance, whom was busy admiring her sharply-defined collarbone and the glittering blue stone resting on her neck. "Lance, do you think you could put a rest to it?"

 

"What?"

 

She slyly gestured to her wobbling soda, and then to Lance's leg jerking erratically underneath the table. "Creating seismic waves." 

 

Abashed, Lance tucked his hands beneath his thighs and tried to hold still. "Hunk, are you going for Silvio?" The awful words spilled out like an oil slick before he could stop them, and he briefly contemplated hiding his face in one the grease-stained bags. 

 

Hunk chuckled and shook his head, looking at Lance with fondness. "Nah. I've got enough going on this year trying to figure out where the hell I'm going to college without me trying to take on a leading role on top of everything else. Besides, that Lotor guy weighs like negative two. Something tells me he wouldn't want a beefy guy to play Silvio."

 

"Tell Princess Lotor she's a snob," said Pidge rudely as she blew her straw at Allura. Hunk smiled at Lance, whom not for the first time wished his childhood friend were gay. "Don't worry, Lance. You've got to go for this, buddy."

 

Near-giddy with relief Lance sagged in his seat before closing his eyes. "You're not beefy. You're perfect and built like a machine and I will kick the ass of anyone who says otherwise. But thanks, man."

 

"The ballerinas are going to get deranged now," said Pidge wisely. "If they want any chance at all to continue on to a professional bracket, this will probably be the one chance they get unless their parents have an extra million-dollar donation they can give a ballet academy. Otherwise..."

 

"....otherwise they miss their bus ticket out of town," finished Lance, stirring his coke a bit harder than necessary. “Hey.” He suddenly didn't know where to look. “I know I’ve asked this before, but is anyone here thinking about pursuing dance after senior year?"

 

"Nope. I mean, I might join a class or club at college for fun, but that's about it," said Hunk evenly as he draped his arms atop the bench. "I honestly think I want to pursue a degree in IT. My poor mom supports me in whatever I want to do, but I can't help but wonder at the fact that she signed me up for ballet so that I could be a nice, artsy-fartsy child, and this is how I repay her."

 

"If only she could've turned you, there might've been a chance," said Pidge, fist-bumping with Hunk. "But I totally get it. Everyone knows my mother forced me into ballet classes when I was a little boy-" Lance laughed merrily. "-because I kept sassing my stupid sexist first-grade teacher. She was that dumbfuck who said women couldn't be drafted. It's a testament to my dedication to Women's Lib that I made her life an unmitigated living hell."  

 

"Oh yeah, I remember you mentioning her," said Lance absently. "Didn't you drive that woman out of her profession?"

 

"Not my fault she burst out crying and hid inside the supplies closet. You'd think a nun would have a stronger stomach."

 

"I remember when your mother first dragged you in to Mr. Sendak's class. She threatened to sedate you."

 

"Something like that. Anyway, mom said I only had to stay for a few weeks and I wound up staying, partially because I genuinely _do_ like ballet-"

 

"-let's _hope_ so, after eight years-"

 

"-and because I've developed a tolerance of you slobs. But I want to get into Michigan Tech, and after that start pursuing a degree in computer programming."

 

"Pretty sure you started that when you were in a hospital bassinet. My mom calls _you_ when she wants tech support," said Lance gently and Pidge shuffled her feet, looking abashed. "Honestly girl, you're not even going to have to _apply_ for Tech. All you'll have to do is tell their office of the registrar 'I go here now,' and they'll be all 'kay, thanks.'"

 

"D'aww."

 

 "What about you, Allura?" Lance asked tentatively, hoping the prepubescent squeak in his voice came off as disinterest. "Are you going to try for Angeline?"

 

If Lance were stripped of nearly all his memories save the ones of lifting Allura into the air during the two performances they'd starred together, he wouldn't be an unhappy in the least. Allura twirled a wispy lock around her index finger, and then let out a long sigh.

 

I'm...still not entirely certain. If I'm cast as Angeline, then I'll certainly take the part..." Her eyes lit up, but a second later dimmed. "Then again, the role of Angeline should go to someone whom knows without a shadow of a doubt that they want to become a _corps de ballet_. And while I'll always love the theatre, I just..."

 

"It's just so _all-consuming!"_ Pidge exclaimed just as Lance opened his mouth. Allura nodded fervently as Pidge ranted, "There's just no half-assing being a ballerina. I don't regret all those weekends we spent competing, or all the minivan roadtrips it took to get us to there, but when you practice around three to four hours a day in a  _junior troupe_ , you honestly just have so little time for a life. I wouldn't mind having one of those after all these years."

 

"But we-" Lance began.

 

"Plus, let's not kid ourselves: Ballerinas don't get paid worth jack, and we have to buy and break open new slippers for every performance. If I had the money back I've spent on ballet lessons, supplies and theatre rent alone, plus everything else, I could hire a team of video game designers to finally make a _Kingdom Hearts III_." Hunk complained, finishing off his Mcnuggets and stifling a burp.

 

"Father says I need to do whatever it takes to be happy," said Allura, and Lance suddenly felt so _sad_ anything he'd been trying to slip in the conversation crumbled apart. With a smeared-on smile he briefly contemplated hiding beneath the table and making it his new digs. "But I'm good at biology, and I like it. And I don't want to spend all of senior year with my life revolving around this performance. I want to try getting an internship at a vet's office, and go to prom."

 

"...so I guess you won't be trying for school in New York, huh." Lance wasn't asking a question.

 

"No," said Allura, with a bit more knowingness in her demeanor than Lance was strictly comfortable with. "I don't want to move too far away from home. I'm all dad has after he and my mum split, so I need to be able to come for some weekends at least."

 

Pidge gently nudged Lance's foot. "It's kind of like _The Little Rascals_ , or _The Sandlot_ kids, or some other ragtag band of dirty little misfits. Only one of us can go on playing games for good." Maybe if Lance paid the employees rent they'd allow him to set up a fort beneath this table for end-times. "That just leaves you to carry on the torch."

 

"Oh, if someone _has_ to," Lance faux-preened, batting his eyes. He was suddenly aware of how acutely lonely he was. "I'll get you all tickets to my first performance in New York."

 

"...you gotta understand that no one's gonna hold it against you if you can't afford it, buddy." Hunk said quietly. "Keith is gonna give everything he has-"

"-so am I!"

"We know, we know, but there's really no telling who Shiro's gonna pick in the end. And Keith will be competing like his life depends on it."

"That's so unfair. Keith belongs to a one-kid family, one that can afford to send him to college if they've been able to send him to dance for so long. My family..." Lance took several long gulps of his coke, because a lump from beneath his rib cage seemed intent on moving its way upward and swelling in his throat. "...well, Luis and Veronica fought like hell to earn scholarships. And they did." Lance inwardly crowed at this, as smug as if their accomplishment had been their own.

But to his no great surprise Lance also shuddered, the precious parts of himself wherein the names Veronica and Luis were softly-cradled in agony. A hole the size of his fist, ripped through with shards of a mirror that was rapidly sepia-dimmed however much Lance polished them, pulsed its playful reminder. "You guys know my grades aren't perfect. Keith will get plenty of other opportunities if he doesn't get this." The admission was sour and grudging. "Which he won't. I won't allow him to take this away from me."

No one said anything for a moment. Hunk looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Well!" He chimed, a little over-brightly as he dug into his pocket. "Who wants to see some vacation pics with my cousins?"

~*oOo*~

They went to see a Marvel movie afterward Lance had already seen while everyone was on vacation. Upon emerging from the cold, hushed cinema, blinking at the dusk-rays that glared red beneath closed eyes, Hunk whispered to Lance, "How are you on spoons?"

Lance managed a twitchy shrug. Hunk squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry, bro. I got you.

"Well guys, my mom asked me to run a few errands before I got home tonight, so I'm gonna have to book," said Hunk, and the rush of gratitude Lance felt for his dear lunk was immediate. "Pidge, you still coming with to play Dream Drop Distance tonight?"

"Hell _yeah,"_ said Pidge, and Lance scuffed the sidewalk with his shoe, wishing not for the first time that he wasn't such a pussy, that he could carelessly go on all night long with his friends if he wanted to. "Hey 'Lura, before you wanna grab some White People Coffee before school?"

"I assume you mean Starbucks, and yes, absolutely," Allura beamed, and Lance wished he could afford private school too. Then again, Keith went to St. Vitus as well, and that could very well mean the school would be torched to the ground, something _abuela_ would in all likelihood be disappointed about.

"I'm headed home," Lance semi-lied, and Hunk pulled him into another too-tight hug embrace, which hurt gratifyingly. Pidge and Allura cheerfully followed suit, and Lance basked dreamily in the sensation of being held. "We'll see you tomorrow.

"Good luck tonight, buddy," Hunk whispered to Lance, squeezing his arm before wandering off to his car, Pidge trailing behind. Allura spritely waved at Lance before hurrying to her Mercedes, blue birthstone bouncing all the while. Lance waved them all off, already slightly lonely but mostly relishing in the weary satisfaction that comes with messing around with like-minded people before returning to yourself to recharge. He un-rooted his feet from the cinema ramp, and headed off to Blue, checking his phone. 

Mama had texted, said she wound up switching shifts with a coworker last moment, whose little girl's asthma was flaring up again. She would return around one that morning, and there were still Lean Cuisines in the freezer if Lance wanted one. He sent her a quick _'K'_ and that was the end of it. No need to ask where Luis senior was, because his shift was fixed and he would be working the red-eye shift as always, stumbling in around three o'clock in the morning, before sleeping much of the day away before his next shift. It was, Lance thought as he flicked his blinker on, the kindest gesture Luis-Lance mentally referred to his father Luis as Louie-ever did for his family.

Had Louie been off tonight and they both were both in a generous mood, they might watch television together. Usually soccer, or a telenova. Louie would tell Lance to get him a beer, and Lance would furtively roll his eyes before obeying. Abuela might sit in her favorite chair, radiating satisfaction like a star that the three of them were technically having family night.

_"Families need TV so they don't have to look at each other,"_ Fry had once said in a _Futurama_ repeat. Lance thought Fry's IQ had vastly underrated in the series. Tonight however, Lance needed to be alone, and to _think_.

He squeezed the small toy Allura had politely coerced a McDonald's employee into giving him on their way out, a small Horned Owl character whose name he'd already forgotten. It hooted, and he attached the little animal to his keychain, watching it swing back and forth as he gunned the accelerator.

Yes, he needed to think, particularly now when it was time to make his rounds.

~*oOo*~ 

The light on the water in Tia's pool in Cuba sparkled fiercely as if the against the dozens of tanned little cousins scrambling in and out of it were swimming in starlight. Lance was _sorry to close his eyes when he lost the near-deafening "One-two-three NOT IT!" roar, trailing "Not it!" hurriedly after everyone else too late._

_"Marco!" He called out, and a cacophony of voices cried out, "Polo!" as everyone rushed for the end behind Lance. He blindly splashed about, hands searching out for purchase of warm, wet skin._

_"Hey, Marco!" he sang, the salty-smell of chlorine flooding his senses. "Marco, I bet you love this game. It was named after you!"_

_A series of splashes nearby came to a halt._

_"I told you my name isn't Marco Polo, Lance! It's_ not!"

"Marco!" _Lance said mockingly, zipping forward like a dolphin honing in on a school of fish. He couldn't remember being taught how to swim, couldn't remember papa's hairy hands guiding him as he waded uncertain little half-inches in shallow water. Mama and abuela teasingly called Lance a merbaby, which Lance felt gave him fair game to mock his older brother whenever they played this game._

_"Hey Marco, you have to say your last name, or you're cheating! You're cheating!"_

_There was no answer. Lance felt about, certain his grasping fingers were honing in._

"Marco...Marco...Marco...."

_But there was no response, and when Lance opened his eyes, there was also no one there._

~*oOo*~ 

 Thankfully the police had yet to pull over Lance despite the fact that he slowly drove through Altea's few streets on a nightly basis, appearing in all likelihood like a drug dealer or a creeper-kidnapper on the prowl. He mentally prepared himself for the day flashing red and blue lights flooded his rearview mirror, the ones that looked like a calling card of death on the drunk driver videos Lance had watched in driver's ed. Lance wouldn't event some sob story about being lost or looking for a missing cat. He'd tell them the truth of why he endlessly-combed the yellowing evenings and look up at the faceless officer defiantly, just daring for them to laugh. It was hard to say which reaction would be worse: Scorn or pity. A few times Lance imagined that the officer in question would be moved by his quest, and, having nothing better to do, would help him roam every corner of this godforsaken town with all the gravitational pull of a black hole. Perhaps somehow then they would strike gold somehow, and along with the man they'd find a Very Good Explanation.

Then Lance would be vindicated, and at last he could drive to Altea's graveyard and start digging up the plot he'd never dared visit. It just felt sacrilegious.

He came to a stop and watched the shape of a black cat dart pass his car. He hoped that it had a home, that there weren't any Missing or Reward signs posted on telephone poles. If so, he'd come back here and find the cat himself. 

He slowed again past the park, sad to see that people had spray-painted the slides and sidewalks with curse words. Why couldn't anyone have nice things anymore?

He drove past the library, around the increasingly-outdated outlet mall, doubling back to circle the firehouse he could no longer enter, drove on an overpass and underneath it, sped up whilst approaching the hospital, and parked in the deserted parking lot of Altea's biking trail and closed nature preserve. He reached into the backseat and hugged his sports bag to his birdlike chest. He rested his cheek against Blue's dashboard to feel something warm (and alive, he liked to imagine.) He eyed the front seat compartment, anxious as if it held a bomb instead of a chocolate bar within its contents.

No.

Today he'd been presented an opportunity unlike the likes of which Lance McClain had ever known, would ever likely come across ever again. It felt selfish, and vain besides to dwell upon something so materialistic and vain as ballet when he was shadowed by shivering trees. Lance guessed he ought to be having Deep and Meaningful thoughts or some shit.

He stepped outside, hearing the sleepy and metallic chirp of crickets.

But ballet _was_  his spiritual practice, something Lance literally bowed to every day of his life. Of course the pay was crap; whatever sparkle a performance had was the largely the glitter of bone dust dancers ground for something they dedicated their lives to, like Olympic-aspiring athletes. And every performance wasn't just an opportunity to one-up the biggest bastard known to mankind, but to throw his heart at the feet of an audience. Love was when you gave every opportunity to hurt you, and trusted that sacred somebody wouldn't step on your heart in return.

In that case, Lance McClain had lost count of how many times he'd loved and been betrayed.

The dry twigs cracked underneath him like sparks and he jumped, anxiously casting the flashlight beam around in case there were predators or psychologists lurking in the shadows.

Ballet had given him purpose, a flash in him when he was the youngest, least-significant, and heaviest of all his siblings. There was something yet that set him apart in dance, and when people rose to their feet and thunderously applauded him, he felt as if there were yet something he could offer to the world.

Even if he were too heavy to play Silvio. Nothing like Keith.

His hand wandered to his gut and he wished he had a knife to hack away at the despicable oily blubber beneath his skin, which bubbled and lurched underneath his skin like a malignant tumor. What was perfectly acceptable and endearing even in Hunk was utterly despicable in Lance. Fat would take away the chance to pursue what had never yet hurt him.

Ballet was, Lance thought wordlessly as he turned on his flashlight and descended into the woods, one of the only true Nice Things he had left, save for his friends. It filtered in the cracks of his broken heart like watercolors, and when he There was no shame, certainly, in working retail or going into construction like his father, but what felt like the cruelest stab in Lance's encroaching, strangely-pleasant hunger was the fact that he felt as if he'd been lied to. _You can do whatever you want. You can be whatever you want to be._ _Oh, you're seventeen now? Well, it's time to be practical._ _New York is full of special snowflakes desperate to be Somebodies, and you'll never afford it. The city will destroy you. Besides, in the unlikeliest event someone sees_ anything _in an autistic person like you, you'll be a dancer all of ten years or so before they decide to kick you out. Better not risk it._

It was time for his last stop of the evening, and he carefully climbed and maneuvered around the mossier stones, appreciatively looking over the violently-churning, foaming waves. He allowed the sound and smells of the river to fill him up. Recharging.

This place had a strangely-magnetic pull on Lance that he never encountered around other bodies of water. He imagined a very, very long red string protruding from the powerful river depths, wrapped around his pinky. As if the river were fishing for him.

There were countless warning signs circling this area strictly forbidding anyone from swimming here. Lance had never tried, although he dearly and perversely wanted to immerse himself in something so much greater than himself. At least there was ballet, the deity he literally bowed to every morning as he did his warm-up stretches.

He let his flashlight shine on the water for awhile, remembering when he and his family picnicked here once or twice during that brief stint in which they pretended they were a family that did such a thing. He and his siblings had all dared each other to enter the water, although of course no one had.

After some time Lance uneasily turned and made for Blue again, grateful for the exercise at the very least. He looked at the water as he went without seeing it, mentally speculating over which sort of diet to begin the following morning. He found a match once, and even if it were outdated now, he'd find another.

He whacked the steering wheel as he climbed into Blue, imagining Shiro proudly announcing Keith's lead role as Silvio with a sharp pang that felt like rusty sickle scraping his insides. No.

As profoundly guilty as the idea of leaving behind Altea forever made him, Keith could keep his innumerable scratches in their scoreboard so long as Lance got the final line.

He couldn't help but open the compartment though with badly-shaking hands, finding the now-melted candy bar he'd bought in a weaker moment. Lance stared at it incredulously.

And he took a bite. It tasted wonderful, so creamy, so rich, so comforting and yet it also tasted like resignation and Keith's face floating over him, having the voices of a hundred knowing people whom were clearly-humoring him, pitying-

He opened the window and spat it out, tossing the rest of the candy in the large, tinny trashcan on his way out.

~*oOo*~

To Lance's great surprise the windows were lit when he came home. And there was the wafting odor and sizzle of cooking red rice and beans, which immediately sent Lance's stomach pinching itself with longing. Abuela slowly shuffled in from the kitchen, her lined face warm. That warmth and near-perpetual small smile made an otherwise plain-looking woman appear, in Lance's eyes, impossibly-beautiful.

_"Mi amor."_

He found himself in her small, bony arms a second later. Abuela hummed as she smoothed an arm up and down his back, drawing away after a few long moments with a hum.

"<Abuela! I thought you had bridge tonight?>"

She waved her hand dismissively. "<Ah, is no big thing. Mama say she work late. I cook dinner."

Lance's face fell a little at that.

"<Oh, well. Um. I actually...already ate.>"

Abuela tsked, shaking her head. "No. No, you too skinny," she fussed, circling Lance's wrist with her fingers and Lance couldn't help but feel pleased. Then again, Abuela always said that to everyone, even Hunk when he visited. "<You eat, and you tell abuela why your eyes bright,>" she teased, poking his cheek. "<Something big today?>"

Damn, but the woman could read Lance like a book. "<Like you wouldn't believe. It's the best news. About our next production. And how I'm gonna kick Keith's ass,>" he added proudly. Abuela chuckled.

"<Good, good. You eat then. Much strength for dancing later. You and I eat and you tell me about it. Then we watch movie.>"

Lance wavered, and Abuela then succeeded where no one else in the world could.'ve Atlas shrugged, nodded, and smiled.

Well, the diet would begin tomorrow. Lance meekly obeyed as he followed her to the kitchen, stomach seizing in anticipatory glee. For now, he had a lot to tell Abuela, a lot to eat, judging by the steaming plate already made out for him, and an outdated Disney videocassette Lance couldn't bring himself to throw out from his collection to choose.

As he sank down it struck him how safe he was.

(For now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about these marks (<) it means that Lance and his grandmother are talking in Spanish. 
> 
> You guys are so kind, warm and thoughtful. I'm so blown away and grateful for your support. It's you I like! ♥
> 
> Gratitude to old_pens, Beekind, Dani, hoodieandjeanqueen, hybridkitsune, cheesepizzef, Cookies_and_Biscuits, Dude, Ren, rogueunicorn, MermaidLance, A_Brat_Without_Talent, and asmaanixx for your comments. 
> 
> People whom have any feedback will receive a proverbial hug and cookie. ^_^ Te amo!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see some ballet in action and we're (briefly) introduced to an-extremely unpleasant character. Someone has an unfortunate "Please Notice Me, Senpai" moment. Trigger warnings for meltdowns, anxiety, slurs, eating disorder idealization, and obsession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears. ♥ So happy to be with you again! 
> 
> I would like to ask you guys for help: I'm in desperate need of some good music for Silvio y Angeline. 

“...there is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”  
-American Psycho

o~*oOo*~o  
One week later

"Lance. Lance, are you listening to me?"

Lance heard Pidge hiss from behind him but didn't listen, blueblack eyes wandering across the innumerable reflections of dancers on the mirrored walls. The enormous glass created the illusion of an army of black-clad ballerinas rising and falling like a wave in a near-collective whole during warm-up stretches at the barre.

They were, Lance understood as he watched Hunk's neck bead with sweat, every bit as disciplined and precise as veteran soldiers whom in lieu of goose-stepping pirouetted sheer terror into people's hearts. And he felt not un-fondly that ballerinas were decidedly more vicious than soldiers, because at least soldiers probably weren't inclined to want to break their comrades' legs before auditions.

Pidge let out a long sigh. "God, I think you stuffed cake in your ears," she murmured, and Lance briefly considered turning to clip her. "I'm just saying you could stand to be less-obvious. I can see your reflection, you know. And quit making faces. I see those too."

He stuck out his tongue and tried to reassert his focus, though Lance's mind was firing neurons in what he conservatively-estimated was half a dozen different directions. Thankfully his body moved automatically through the grand plié stretch to the cool, tinkling music repeating its cadence to keep everyone in rhythm as it had for years. He sank into not-quite a squat, taking care to avoid his knees from passing over his toes. 

Rise, fall, arm coming to rest between ankles before slowly ascending in a half-moon to guide the body in an upward position. Let your arm arch like a crane's neck. Lance's eyes flicked over to Keith again at the opposite barre, slender but chiseled rower's arms shifting as impeccably through third movement as if he were a professional instructor in a training video.

Keith's head tilted slightly in his direction and Lance sourly glanced away again, wondering if Keith felt his arctic stare piercing his back. He hoped so; fucking Keith was fucking Zuko from fucking Avatar: The Last Airbender before he joined the good guys. At least Zuko had some redeeming qualities even before joining Aang, but Keith was-

"Are you trying to kill Keith via sheer mind-power again?" asked Hunk in a hushed whisper as the halting music slowly faded into a tintinnabulation melody that sounded soft and fragile.

"How did you guess?" he asked dully, automatically stiffening when he noticed Shiro briefly look their way as he paced up and down the queues.

Hunk shuddered, heaving his leg in the air as high as he could for a grand battement. "Dude? The vibes you're emitting? Cutting through the air."

Let them, Lance thought coolly as he switched legs to stretch. After all, Keith radiated near-constant tension like a coal, the unsmiling boy's posture as rigid as if he were auditioning to be a stop sign. Even Hunk gave him a wide berth after approaching him once or twice in an ill-fated attempt to be friendly. 

Keith's leg flew straight up over his head and Lance copied at once, sweat beading beneath his black shirt. Keith was almost as fluid as Shiro whilst dancing, though lighter-fluid might perhaps be the better term for Keith’s swift and sharp movements, which were almost reminiscent of martial arts with the static-charged aggression fueling them. When not dancing he mainly leaned against the wall before and after practice with his head resting beneath folded arms, showing off his charming and diverse catalogue of grimaces. All that was missing was streaky eyeliner and drawn-on tattoos of lyrics from Three Days’ Grace songs. This despite he’d probably never had to make-do without anything. 

Lance couldn't help but notice that more than a few of the girls were eying Keith too. He tasted what he imagined was strychnine and turned to check his own progress in the mirror. His countenance was blank again, and his eyes were glazed over. Lance blinked and tried forcing light into them. No one wanted a stoned-looking Silvio.

One of the more exhausting things about social camouflaging was the fact that you had to work so hard to appear normal, though everyone said Lance's trademark expressions were something out of a cartoon. Clownish and over-the-top at best. Maybe that was genuinely his persona, or the one he'd fabricated from mimicry of the other dancers he'd been surrounded with all his life. It was difficult to tell, though he grudgingly acknowledged to himself that much of his attention in his social interactions went into creating the most-appropriate response possible when others could just be, and not have to think about it. Not a lot of people allowed Lance to just be.

There will be time, there will be time  
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet

He squatted and propped his foot atop the pole, clinging to the barre as if it were a jungle gym. Keith could be the picture of cool indifference and girls would pause when they passed him in the halls, giving him once or twice-overs. If Lance weren't monitoring how he wanted to appear to others he was expressionless and misty-eyed even when he was paying full attention, or feeling more than he strictly cared to. As a result, many people spoke very slow, Pre-K dialogue to Lance as if he were retarded-and the fact that he was hurt more than anything else could. Only Pidge, Hunk and Allura and if anyone else found out, even Shiro, Lance would probably give in to the gravitational pull of Altea’s river.

But though Keith didn't make the slightest effort to make nice his sobriety made him 'deep' and 'pensive' to a lot of sighing ballerinas here, whom usually found some excuse to give Keith their numbers even though he'd never actually called anyone back. Lance perched his other leg on the barre, eyes frosting over. Pretentious dipshit.

Keith didn't seem the slightest bit grateful to have captured the interest of so many spindly, fairy-like girls, or for the fact that his parents could send him to an expensive private school all his life. Whereas Lance scoured thrift stores looking for secondhand athletic wear and depended on his grandparents' savings to attend ballet.

The music stopped playing and everyone stood at attention to look at Shiro, whom had moved to the front of the class once again with Coran.

"Okay you guys." His sharp clap echoed. "Yesterday ended on a rough note, so we're resuming our work on the Dark Dolls and Soldiers' first scene." There were some groans. "C'mon. We're not progressing to another act until we have at least the basics covered on this movement. But that's never good enough for us. Remember our policy-"

"-be better than the person you were yesterday," everyone chimed, and Pidge rolled her eyes. Lance suddenly imagined the tiny girl being cast in the role of Angeline and himself as Silvio. Certainly Lance could lift her with one hand, though there would probably be pizza stains on her tutu come opening night.

"Remember ladies to focus on your adagio," said Coran, with a small and elegant twirl. "On your swirling flow, on how well one movement seams into the next. You're continuously moving-" He spun one, twice, three times, standing on pointe before coming down in relevé, arms continuously reaching. He then twinkle-toed through the next series of steps as delicately as if he were crossing a flowery meadow that doubled as a mindfield before flourishing his arms with another elegant twist. 

"-and those opening positions are deceptively light and uncomplicated. But the tempo will increase, because remember-" He wagged his finger. "-these Dolls are up to no good. They're Fulvia's servants, out to seduce the Soldiers. And as they start succeeding their movements become much sharper and wilder."

"A reminder to our Soldiers that your allegro jumps on stage need to have a good, decisive tour en l'air kick." Shiro darted across the room and flung himself into the air, leg swiftly flying out. He spun a magnificent full rotation before landing on his feet again and the applause was immediate. He might’ve easily been a remarkable figure skater. "When you run out on stage, you have the more dynamic movements because you're exercising your strength as warriors. But then you're overpowered by the dolls' seduction, and you steadily shrink into a much meeker, submissive adagio.

"Gentlemen, you'll pair up with the ladies again as Soldiers, and we'll be practicing lifts. Everyone find your positions."

A hand flew up in the air. "But when will you officially cast everyone?" a dancer named Emily asked anxiously. “When are the auditions?”

"Consider the next three months your audition," said Shiro with a smile, and looked crestfallen as people booed. "C’mon, official auditions will come, but I need to see your dedication and how well-suited you are to particular roles.”

“One audition by itself isn’t a great idea. After all, everyone has an off-day,” added Coran smartly. “Especially when you barely know your technique. But consider the next few months’ participation your opportunity to zazz us.” He cocked his head and clasped his hands together, his eyes shining like a Rainbow Brite doll’s. “It’s 75% of your total grade, you know.” 

“Although I will say anyone really putting their backs into it today will be invited to advance to Angeline's choreography soon.” Shiro said lightly, clapping to silence the jabbering in the room. Keith's hand shot up. "And likewise for Silvio." The hand lowered again, and Lance pressed his knuckles against his lip. "I want everyone to find your partner from yesterday, and confirm with each other you both understand the first sequences before we begin. We don't need anyone dropping anybody."

People wandered across the room, waving partners over. Lance looked for Acxa, a tall, willowy and unimpressed-looking girl whom yesterday informed Lance she had a boyfriend before they shook hands. But to his confusion and admittedly-growing concern, he couldn't find her in the crowd as everyone began conjoining in twos. 

It was a grand thing Lance hadn’t been present during the Great Flood, because he probably wouldn’t have had a second like himself back then either. He supposed it wasn't much different from any of his school dances, or when teachers let students choose whom they paired up with for projects and Lance found himself back at his desk alone before a teacher forced a duo to accept him. 

Keith looked around the dispersing troupe, and his own confusion was evident. He'd been paired yesterday with a pretty girl named Rachel whom teasingly poked him a lot before and after practice, only to discover that Keith wasn't exactly the Pillsbury Dough Boy when it came to being nudged in the tummy. But she wasn't anywhere to be found either.

"Hey, Acxa is sick and Rachel's getting her wisdom teeth out," piped up Allura as Keith and Lance slowly wandered about the center of the practice room, carefully avoiding each other's gaze. "There won't be an even number of boys and girls to pair up with."

"Ah. That’s right." Shiro's face darkened and Lance didn't envy the girls in the least; Shiro hated absentees and more of less expected people to drag themselves to practice even if they'd been hit by a car on the way over. Anything else seemed to be an insult.

Hie'd made an exception once, for Lance.

He let out a deep sigh and contemplated the troupe thoughtfully. Then he clapped his hands and turned to the partnerless boys.

"Keith. Lance. I want you to two to pair up for this exercise."

And all the air in the room went out in a deathly hush.

Everyone fell as silent and still as a tomb, or as if they'd all received news of another national tragedy on par with 911. Lance couldn't speak for a long moment, though he was rapidly losing feeling in his fists.

What.

The actual fuck.

"Can I go into the hall?" asked Keith, groaning as he buried his face in his hand. "I need to throw myself out a window."

"Don't do that. We're on the first story. Go up a few flights first at least."

"Boys."

"The two stared at their powdered slippers as Shiro put his hands on his hips. "Are you telling me you'd rather sit this one out?" Shiro asked shrewdly, and both boys stiffened immediately. That was such a double-loaded question. What bullshit.

"Can we maybe just, take turns dancing with other girls?" Lance begged.

"Erm," said Coran nervously, wringing his hands. Possibly he was recalling the ballet bake sale incident eight years ago wherein Lance and Keith had been asked to mind the goods table by themselves for a moment. A moment had been enough for the day to live in infamy and the stain of the memory was probably just as impermeable as the chocolate stains in Coran's velvet coat. "Not a bad idea. Shiro, perhaps we could pair up Lance and Allura up first, and then Keith could trade with him."

"No. Remember that this isn't opposition, just an opportunity," said Shiro firmly, and Lance wondered if Keith were in a mind to push Shiro out the window before he went. Their instructor rested his hands on Keith and Lance’s shoulders. "You boys are serious about wanting to play Silvio, right? I need to show me how dedicated you are to working with everyone. Even those you don't...um...always get along with. Especially those you don't get along with. It's a skill we all need to learn as young professionals." 

There was tittering on all sides and Lance and Keith gaped at each other at the sheer stupidity of it all. It was probably a bad moment for Lance to divulge that he had asked his old Wiccan neighbor Haggie to curse Keith not three years ago in exchange for raking her yard.

"Can you boys do that?" Shiro asked softly, and this was so unfair Lance hoped Hunk would be generous enough to step on his throat. "For me?"

Keith’s face scrunched up and Lance almost winced. Damn, damn, damn, damn.   
Damn.

His head sullenly sagged forward affirmatively. Someday, somehow, when Lance was a professional dancer in a New York ballet company, Shiro was going to pay for this.

"I really thought you liked us, Shiro," said Keith mirthlessly. Lance noticed a fine gleam on Keith's brow despite the fact that warm-up exercises alone were never enough to make him break a sweat. "I had no idea you were a sadist all this time."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is grounds for suing for mental anguish." pointed out Lance, stroking at the hem of his shirt.

Shiro let out a long sigh. "Come on. Save the theatrics for your performance. Everyone, keep talking to your partners." He strode away and Coran clasped his hands together at his heart as if in prayer. "We begin in five."

The room's babble picked up again as Keith and Lance remained glued where they were, too humiliated to even look at each other again, let alone speak. At last Lance reluctantly asked, "So, who's gonna be whom?"

"It isn't fair for you to be the Dark Doll," said Keith, raising an eyebrow when Lance stuck his tongue out at him. "I'd break my arms trying to heave you up in the air." 

Lance almost let the strangled stream of swearwords piling up inside burst free. "Fine. See if I bother to actually catch you. I'd be happy to shove my foot up your ass after I throw you, but there's probably no room, 'cause your head's up there all the time."

"I'm sure Shiro will delighted to see that you're giving it your best," scoffed Keith with a sneer, hands on his hips. "Although it wouldn't be a surprise, considering you have no discipline. When are you going to accept that you're out of your fucking league? I've taken lead some seven or eight more times than you. So why not go to the bakery and stuff some more doughnuts down your shirt?"

Okay. That was it. “Cause I’m your competition. And I’ll be damned—“ His voice boiled into a snarl. “If I let you take away what’s mine. I’m getting that role, and you can bitch about it all you want, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou, because lost your right to be Silvio a long time ago!"

“And you’re the authority on the subject because…?”

The pain of the still-fresh memory bloomed through Lance's subconscious, steadily painting it red like a spilled inkwell. "Keith, you already got a scholarship. You could've gone to a ballet academy! Don't you remember that talent scout three years ago?"

"Funnily enough, I do," Keith snapped, although he did look a little uneasy, hackles rising like a defensive cat’s.

"I don't know that you do," said Lance sadly. "He was willing to give you a full-ride to Augusta. All the way in the city! You could've gotten out of here, could've had all the one-on-one training you liked. You would’ve been on the fast track to New York without needing to play Silvio. You could've been amazing." Surprise flitted across Keith's face for the briefest of seconds and Lance made a mental note to cut out his contaminated tongue when he got home. "But you wouldn't take it. Why?" he demanded, and he actually stomped at the last word for emphasis.

"Why?" He asked again, the second one escaping in a plea. "I still don't understand how if you care so much about dancing for a living you could turn down that kind of opportunity. To dance all day if you wanted to."

"That's none of your business."

"It damn well is when you're trying to take away my one opportunity to get away from here and you already got your VIP pass!" Several heads turned and Lance's voice dropped, disgust still evident. "Just tell me. You never did.” Keith’s face turned scarlet, and he toed the ground. “What is it? Is it that your smiley face would miss this tiny-ass school that much?”

“Lance.” Keith’s jaw was set. “Stop.” 

“But I don’t understand. Keith, I had so much respect for you.” It was fortunate Abuela taught him how to stitch and repair tears in his clothes, because now Lance wanted to sew his mouth shut. But he couldn’t stop. “Why stay when you don’t even like anyone here?” 

“I like someone.” 

Oh. Lance blinked. He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “...that doesn’t seem like that’d be enough to stop you from going to the Garrison Ballet Academy. What's really keeping you here?” 

Something in Keith's eyes flickered. "You...you....never mind." He shifted from one foot to the other, clasping his forearm. "It's not important. Let's just get through this exercise and pretend it never happened."

"Deal."

But the thickness in the air had settled in their throats and each scrutinized their blurry reflections on the gleaming floors melting into each other. “So, you want to be a Doll?”

“No. I’d….I want to be a Soldier.” 

Something that sucked about being queer sometimes was that the precious few whom knew Lance was bisexual occasionally mockingly referred to him as a girl. There was definitely nothing wrong about being a woman, but it was irritating just the same when Pidge told Lance he’d make a great trophy housewife. Even if that did have some interesting implications and he could maybe become a reality TV show star.

“....anything I can do to convince you to try being a Doll?”

Keith shook his head. This was an argument just waiting to happen, and Lance was already too mentally-drained to take or make the opportunity as he always did.

"Okay." He pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed to the God he sometimes believed in. "Let's get through this with the least amount of mental scars possible. Our partners will be back tomorrow."

Keith seemed to be deep in thought, but he tipped his head in a near microscopic nod.

"....I'll be one of the Dolls." 130. 130. 130. "And if I am too heavy, just...don't give me a hard time about it, okay? We'll just switch. I promise I won’t actually drop you.”

"Whatever." Keith looked as if he were in hell. Lance marveled how the female ballerinas trusted the cavalieres, their male dance partners to take them into their hands and hoist them several feet into the air. How did they trust that they'd be caught, or feel safe in such a fucking vulnerable position? He shuddered to think about having a guy   
opportunity to look up your junk. Knowing how much you weighed. An inexcusably fat fucking little fuck.

Lance imagined grease streaking down chafing thighs dimpled with cellulite, and he muttered his code-word, "Bluebell" to help him focus on a mental image to help stave off the distant rumble of a meltdown or panic attack.

If Keith complained Lance were too heavy Shiro would hopefully have the sense to give Lance another partner, although anyone with the smallest iota of sense never would've emotionally blackmailed them into working together in the first place. 

Yep, he’d practice the black magic Haggie taught him in exchange for Lance’s cleaning her attic once he was back home: May in another universe Shiro be thrown into prison, have his arm chopped off, and get tortured horrendously. 

Shiro clapped again. "Everyone, take your places."

Lance trudged to the right side of the room with the other Dark Dolls, catching Allura's sympathetic gaze as Pidge affectionately jostled him. "If it makes you feel better maybe Hunk will bake Keith some Hate Cookies or Spite Muffins after practice. As for you, you should grab some non-spite ice cream to help the medicine go down."

"Sure."

"Wanna stop at DQ on your way home? I have a coupon if you'd like it."

"....actually, I'm planning on splurging with my abuela tonight, but thanks."

He warily scanned the room for any cameras; if anyone recorded this practice Lance would have to destroy them and everyone they knew. It was a good, good thing his father had given him an excellent incentive to not take up drinking. Ever. “God. I have no idea how to do this.” 

“Harness your inner black woman and power through in style, you pussy.” said Pidge, dabbling a finger in her ear.”

“Your support moves me.”

"Okay, everyone," Shiro called, voice echoing. "Three, two...."

The music began and the ballerinas fluttered forward in a v-shaped formation, all prancing in side-step hops. Lance loudly counted to four in his mind before gliding to a halt, allowing his arms to open and curl like wisps of smoke or a snake's coils. They crossed their legs, raised their arms and lightly bounced on the balls of their feet before twisting to the right. They broke formation to spin like tops around each other, arms continuously moving, splayed hands slowly drawing over their faces as masquerade masks. 

The Dolls eventually hooked arms as they formed clock hands, lightly-kicking to match the mischievous march playing. After a full clockwise rotation the two lines reached the twelve o’clock position and they formed a straight queue, dancing forward and and back, coordinating their pendulum rhythm with every other person. Lance could see the perfect-unity expected at showtime still wasn't evident in the developmental stage.

He did have to suppress a chuckle as he took hands with Pidge and another girl, everyone dancing about in a ring-around-the-rosy to a perturbing waltz periodically punctuated with a violin's wild and frantic keen. Everyone spun away again on tiptoe, in the simple pointe shoes that had a shorter shelf-life than salad and had taken them so many years to earn.

It was an overdone comparison, Lance thought as he reached out as openly and entrancingly as he could to the imaginary audience, but ballet done well was a remarkable testament to human ingenuity, a means of connecting with the storytellers whom came dancing before them and now were dancing in the sky as rust and stardust. 

He drew away from the audience of ghosts, still motioning like a siren to come hither, and allowed his own soul to sink into blue light as if delving into the ocean. He descended in a flurry of silver bubbles before reaching the drowning indigo. Lance remained faintly ware of all the other dancers about him, all of whom reduced to moving colorful silhouettes, all different shades and lusters. 

The brass on the tape brightly swelled and trumpeted. Lance wobbled and nearly lost his balance when the drums crashed. He could’ve whimpered as he and the other Dolls fell back as psuedo-nymphs, their exaggerated movements and joined jumps suggesting alarm. Oh God. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening.

It was happening. 

The Soldiers leapt forward, and Lance would’ve paid no small amount of money to be one of them; they were pure swagger in their prancing and saluting, their legs splaying easily in their jumps. Lance looked on dumbly as Keith executed an immaculate aerial spin over a bent dancer and the Dolls immediately scattered ahead of him to their designated partners. Remembering himself, he hurried into place. 

But the edges of his focus began rapidly fraying as he danced closer and closer to Keith whose arms were already opening for him. Growing alarm flashed epileptically through him and bit into Lance’s head, burying itself there like a tic. He’d suggested this. He’d suggested this. His vision blurred and he moved senselessly, thoughts degenerating to a howling chorus:

No, no, no, no, no. 

And Lance tripped over himself as he bolted from Keith and crashed straight into what felt like a wall, only it was Hunk, whom grunted and fell back a step in surprise. Hunk’s partner Emily came to a stop, looking bewildered. After a few split flustered seconds Emily seemed to have decided to roll with it, because she doubled back and made a beeline for Keith instead-

“Stop, stop, stop, stop.” 

The music faded and Lance could practically feel the vibration of Shiro’s approaching footsteps. “Lance.” The weariness and disappointment in Shiro’s voice was so much more excruciating than anger ever could be. “We had an agreement. You don’t suddenly get to decide to trade partners on the stage just because it suits you. And um, Hunk, you’re free to move now.”

Hunk remained frozen in place with his hands in the air. Lance fell back, hugging himself as if he were about to be sick. He might be. The room suddenly acquired a thousand eyes. “Hey. Hey, Lancey-Lance. You okay?” 

He couldn’t speak. Hunk gave him a sad, gentle look. “Can I give you a hug?” 

Hesitation, and then a nod, and those big hot flubby arms pulled him into an embrace. And something about that made Lance’s throat twist and the tears began falling thick and fast. He focused on the sensation of Hunk’s slightly-damp cotton against his face, breathing rattling. Run and hide your crazy and start acting like a lady. 

“Lance?” Scratch disappointment; Shiro’s mounting worry was so much more dangerous. “Lance, everything okay?” 

“Buddy, are you having a panic attack? Do you need to go stim?” Hunk whispered and Lance forced himself to shake his head, though all the pressure to not break down was beating at his self-control with hundreds of hands. He mumbled something almost entirely inarticulate as Allura and Pidge approached to pat Lance’s arms. Pidge craned her head to listen to the muffled jargon.

“Well, what is he saying?” asked Coran, whom came forward with a water bottle. 

“He says it isn’t fair to make Keith risk damaging his tendons or his back,” said Pidge with a shrug, sighing when Shiro gave her an incredulous look. Sounding partially-like a distressed orca whale, Lance muttered something else. Pidge translated, “‘I want to be Silvio, but not like that.’” 

His hands jumped and Lance held in the urge to start flailing; he was liable to fly at himself in a frenzy and hurt whatever or whomever got too close. And harming Hunk was a crime punishable to being shot. 

He took a cautious step back, looking into Hunk’s concerned, warm brown eyes and managing a watery smile. If Hunk were gay, perhaps Lance would hang up his shoes if he asked, though of course he never would. 

“A-hum.” Coran coughed dryly. “Shiro, I appreciate what you’re trying to do with this trust fall, but it’s true that Lance must weigh more than a girl. If Keith isn’t accustomed to bearing that sort of weight on pointe he could very well tear something and be out of commission for some time.” 

Shiro lowered his gaze and opened his mouth just as a mutinous Keith strode over to Lance, whom hastily took a few steps back in alarm. “I wasn’t trying to trick you!” Why was he apologetic? Keith certainly never promised not to drop him too. “Honest. But I’m-HEY!” 

Keith seized him and unceremoniously uplifted Lance off his feet, whom yelped and thrashed for dHe bent one leg and nimbly jumped, allowing the other to follow after in midair. He landed on one foot and allowed the other to slide inches away, this time reaching outstretching for Keith in a clear if hesitant invitation. Keith crooked his own arms and in three spins crossed over to the right as he recaptured Lance, lifting him in a sideways jump. ear life. Pidge cackled with several other ballerinas. “Hey! It’s the Circle of Life! How’s the weather up there, Simba?”

“I hate you. So much. And, uh, Keith? Keith?”

To Lance’s mortification Keith’s pale fingers were splayed over Lance’s ribcage and they squeezed, grasp too tight. Lance looked down to see Keith’s dark eyes widen and then narrow. Lance fiercely kicked in the air. “Great, fine, your point’s been proven. Um? Keith? Keith? You can let me down now.” 

“Well, I guess that solves the weight issue,” said Coran with a bemused shrug as Keith’s grip at last loosened somewhat and Lance slid free, accepting the proffered water bottle with a word of thanks. 

“What weight issue?” Shiro asked sharply. “Coran, we’ve been over this-”

“Can we get on with practice?” Keith interrupted. He gave Lance an annoyed look, but said not unkindly, “I’m seriously the last person you need to worry about.” 

“Who’s worrying over you?!” Lance demanded. “I just want to take you on on a level playing field is all.”

“I’m just saying you might want to try worrying over yourself for a change.” Keith wet his lip, seemed to be readying to say something else, and let it go. 

“Alright, alright, enough with the hurly-burly.” Coran had clearly been born in the wrong century. “Let’s start from the very beginning. A very good place to start. You alright, Lance?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance mopped his face and gave the girls an apologetic smile, tucking a hand behind his head to briefly tug his hair. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Shiro gave him a thumbs-up and returned to the laptop hooked up to the speakers.

“Right. Everyone in place. Let’s take it from the top…”

~o*oOo*o~

This time, as Lance elegantly sashayed, swirled and leapt across the room in sync with the other Dolls, he sank into Keith’s hold, going limp. This seemed about as sensible to Lance as a bird flying into the jaws of a waiting cat, but he was relieved when Keith’s grip remained steady. Still, chances were fair that people would assume Lance was suffering severe gastrointestinal distress on stage. 

Keith lifted him into the air, and Lance splayed his legs and bent his arms to the left before landing on pointe. He crooked his elbows and intertwined his fingers at sternum level, foot folding against his leg before it flew out in a pirouette. Keith took his hand as Lance did one rotation, two, and another before Lance elevated his leg up as high as he could, and fell daintily upon it on pointe before spinning away, holding his other leg up with one hand for a ballast. He was grateful to be out of Keith’s range at least for a moment. 

But he had to crouch slightly, allowing his other foot to slide out a few inches behind him. He beckoned in a hesitant invitation.

Keith’s unblinking black eyes zeroed in on him, something that made the back of Lance’s neck prickle. Keith spun back in Lance’s direction in three powerful spins before the two both jumped sideways, and Lance hoped they were neatly parallel.   
Keith’s hands slipped around Lance’s hand and waist. Tensing, Lance looped an arm around Keith’s neck as he was tilted horizontally backward, Lance’s free leg and arm rising out. He expected the floor to plop into his back at any moment, but thankfully Keith lifted him again before dipping him in the opposite direction. Lance’s arm was raised in a SOS as well as in a ta-da. 

Afterwards, Lance and the Dolls were quickly airborne. Lance sadly noted that Keith couldn’t lift him as readily as the other boys could the girls. It was to be expected. 130. 130. 130. He was already nearly there. 

When the two straightened Lance’s head leaned against his shoulder, Keith holding his arm as they slanted to the right, keeping their left feet up. He caressed Keith’s cheek with a shaking hand and flitted away again, utterly mortified. The Dolls were supposed to look seducingly into the Soldiers’ eyes, but if Shiro Tagashi couldn’t convince Lance to do something, it would not be done.

It was only later that Lance remembered he hadn’t bothered donning a particular face for Keith. The idea seemed unnatural. 

Lance spun and leapt around Keith as if Keith were a maypole, pretending to strew flowers. He would’ve liked to have real petals to throw in Keith’s face, but their slipperiness on the stage made them a liability. Keith made the necessary motions to reach out for Lance again, face still intent as a lion pursuing a gazelle. Or another lion. Lance braced himself for when the teeth inevitably returned. 

The Dolls and Soldiers formed two dancing lines, everyone frolicking on foot for three seconds before quickly switching to the other. Repeat. Repeat. They watched for Shiro’s one-two-three-four-five count before the groups skipped away sideways in opposite directions, sliding back to alternate their movements. The first two partners held their hands aloft and merrily hurried their way down the middle of the queue, breaking apart to rejoin the line as the second pair took their turn. Next came Keith and Lance, and Lance only hoped his lunch would have the decency to not pay a courtesy call. 

They took hands again, which slipped because they were both sweaty and made their way down. There were snorts, because they had to both appear unspeakably dumb, but Lance chuckled just the same along with them. 

After that, Lance didn’t remember much. He remained aware of dancing with Keith, even if he couldn’t recollect his own movements. The other kaleidoscope patterns kept shifting around them, but Keith’s own colors-hundreds of blazing reds-were decidedly more prominent in comparison, like a supernova amongst other pale, stark stars. They seemed to glisten in fierce and bloody delight, had made their presence known in a near short-circuiting shower of sparks. 

Lance noticed it at a great distance, despite their close proximity in their shadow dance and he’d leant in, enthralled as he shot upwards to investigate the light patterns playing above surface-

And then the music stopped. Lance found himself propped one leg, his opposite high in the air with the coordinating arm. Dizzy and disoriented he dropped to one knee, gratefully taking the hand that swam into his vision and pulled him up. It was Keith’s, and Lance gave it the smallest of squeezes before taking a few hasty steps away.

Both Coran and Shiro burst into frantic applause, their delight more evident. “Now that’s more like it!” cried Coran. “Well done!” 

“We’ll have to introduce some small corrections later, but I think it’s evident you’re ready to practice the pas de deux that follows this song. As we all know, at this point in the story the captain of the Stalwart Soldiers comes, and he’s infuriated to find all his men have been reduced to putty.” There were some laughs and nods all around. “As to be expected when you counter beautiful and ingenious girls. The Mistress of the Dolls dances with him and succeeds in enlisting the Soldiers on their side. Now, we’ll be splitting into two groups and learning the opening movements. All of you take a quick two-” Lance smacked his sweaty forehead. “-and look sharp.” 

"Lance, you…” Allura shook her head as Lance followed the boys to the opposite side of the room. “That was amazing.” 

“D’aww! Go on. Seriously.” 

He and Keith exchanged the briefest of grins when Shiro came to congratulate them both. Then Hunk’s hand was on Lance’s back and they went to the barre, Shiro coming to the front to walk them through the intro. 

Once Shiro at last told them to stop and everyone sank to the ground in relief, Keith gingerly turned to look where Lance had been, but Lance was gone. He, along with several other students were pooling around a young girl still quietly at work with the opening movements of the Dark Doll Mistress. Lance stomach pleasantly looped.

Nyma. 

She was very fair-haired, with creamy, porcelain skin, very-fair hair, and large violet eyes. Lance thought she was reminiscent of one of those Precious Moments dolls.  
Allura eyed her coolly and wandered off with a sniff. She had a habit of calling Nyma ‘precious’ but in its second and decidedly-less flattering definition. 

Nyma clutched the barre, free arm gracefully rising from her side. Slowly, her lovely back where her scapula extended their bony wings perfectly straight, her extended leg turned sideways with mechanical precision, all of the girl's weight born on one impossibly petite foot that didn’t quiver the smallest bit. That long leg curved a one-eighty rotation until it was extended behind her, lifting higher as Nyma's frame bent lower and she appeared to be on the verge of falling. But of course she didn't; she slowly rose with a flourish, arm rising and falling as she stood back for her other leg to shoot up. Lance shivered as he drew closer. Amazing. 

Apparently Shiro thought so too, because he came to the girls watch her progress. “Very nice and clean poise. That’s an Angeline-quality right there.” Nyma cooed in her velvety voice and Lance’s heart appeared to have become an active faultline.

He imagined her in the gold and white floaty gown Angeline was supposed to wear during the engagement ball scene. She would look devastatingly pretty in it. If it weren’t so imperative for Lance to play Silvio, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to play the Nobleman. At least he got to propose to Angeline, though it was true that Angeline would spend much of the celebratory feast searching the crowds for her beloved Fulvia, whom was at work trying to poison her chalice. That probably wasn’t the greatest analogy. 

When Shiro clapped his hands and whistled everyone circled him, though Keith skulked back as always. “Alright, great work, team. We’re ending on a much better note than yesterday. We’ve just got to improve our trajectory at the opening of the scene because there’s no need to run around and bump into each other.” Lance thought there was no need for Shiro to call him out, either. “It creates a mess. And gentlemen, when you bend-” Shiro knelt accordingly. “-and allow the others to leap over you, you need….”

While Shiro went on, Lance’s head swiveled in Nyma’s direction again. He surreptitiously murmured in Pidge’s ear, "Hey. Do you notice Nyma’s been looking kinda blue recently?” 

“I don’t make a habit of noticing things I don’t care about. But from what I can’t help but overhear at school because no one shuts up ever is the fact that Nyma just broke up with her boyfriend. Now close your trap before flies get inside.” 

Lance tried to obey and to force himself to retain whatever Coran was saying about, but his mind kept rising away like bread dough that resisted however many times you beat it. Nyma was single now. Oh. Oh. 

Once critique had ended everyone put an arm forward in the circle and shot it into the air, Keith as always reluctantly participated when Shiro gave him the Eye. After their usual “See you tomorrow” and “Let us know if you need anything” waves, Shiro and Coran headed out the door to their offices, and everyone headed to fetch their gear cloistered in a corner of the room. Lance saw Nyma disappear into the halls flanked by girls-like the swan queen and her attendants-and gave chase before he could second-guess himself. “Hey! Nyma! Nyma!”

Nyma turned with a mystified expression as Lance ran panting to a stop from behind.   
"I just-wanted to say-you were amazing today." The effort to speak left him winded and he had to perch his hands on his knees.

“Well. Thank you, Lance.” She said primly, chuckling as her friends gave each other furtive peeps. “That’s so nice of you to say.” 

Encouraged, Lance went on. “And I...I wanted to ask, um.” He frantically dove through the cupboards of his mind, attempting to find something. “Have you...read anything good recently? Or do you like video games?” 

Nyma tucked her arms behind her back, smile widening as her girlfriends half-heartedly stifled their giggling. "Oh, Lance. You're so funny. And special." 

"....thank you," Lance said gratefully, quite pleased although he wondered what it was he’d said that’d been so funny. Maybe Nyma found humor in the fact that Lance thought she had much time or energy for many extracurricular activities. “And I was wondering...um. Would you maybe like to...get a coffee sometime?” Oh, God. Who the fuck said get “a coffee” anyway? “Or an ice cream?” What was Lance, British?

The girls howled with laughter. Nyma bit her lip. "Oh. Well, that’s so sweet, buI-" 

"Hey." A girl named Ezor whom had idly been scrolling on her phone all the while stuck hers underneath Nyma’s nose. “Honey. You might want to check out this post."

The ballerinas looped around the screen, and there were more than a few gasps and some drawn-out “Oooohs.” Lance thought he saw some smirks quickly smothered into utmost sympathy however as people stroked Nyma’s impossibly thin frame. “Sorry,” said Ezor, although she did not sound very sorry.” 

“Hey, uh. Everything okay?” asked Lance. 

Nyma had gone deathly white, and she was biting her lip harder than ever, looking positively horrified. She pushed away Ezor’s phone with a cool, “Very funny,” and promptly gave Lance a fond look. 

"It’s nothing. You know what?" Her voice was drenched with honey, sweeter than what Lance’s beekeeper relatives sent from Cuba. "I'd love to. You like Olive Garden?"

Most of Nyma’s entourage abruptly turned on their heels and hurried away, though Ezor looked aghast. A spark positively ran up Lance’s spine. "Uh, yeah, I-"

"Meet me there tomorrow at six?"

Ezor mouthed, Stop, and Nyma turned up her nose at her. Lance just nodded like a bobblehead, his own spinning. “Y-yeah. I’d...yeah!” 

"Great!" 

Nyma dug through her bag and thrust a bottle of mineral water into Lance’s arms. "You look like you could use this. See you tomorrow!"

“T-thanks! See you tomorrow!” 

With an adorable wink over her shoulder Nyma flounced off with Ezor in pursuit. The girl gave Lance a quick pitying look before reluctantly following her social superior to the locker room.

Weak at the knees, Lance whooped, gleefully thrusting the bottle up in a toast. He all but skipped to Allura, Hunk, and Pidge uncertainly waiting in the wings. “Did you see that? Oh my freaking God, did you actually see that?” 

Keith stood alone near the wall as was his wont, fists clenched. His eyes were scoured and scouring, and they seemed to have retreated back into Keith’s skull with all the life they held within. Or have been cut out entirely and served on a platter like St. Lucia’s. Lance wondered if the one person Keith liked here had possibly been Nyma. "Hey Keith! Remember when you said I was going to die alone with 1,000 cats? Reality clearly begs to differ!"

"I didn't say 1,000. I distinctly recall saying 1,001," Keith said dryly, wiping his face with the towel he held. "But I didn't realize Nyma was into hard drugs." He flashed Lance an overly-concerned look. "Or do you think she hit her head today during practice and sustained a serious concussion?"

"Guess what? Nyma found a spare water bottle for me in her bag," Lance snapped, thrusting the evidence up in the air like the Statue of Liberty bearing her lantern. "Maybe if she digs around a bit more she might find a soul for you."

Keith's eyes drilled into his own, and Lance forced himself to hold his gaze. "If you're stupid enough to think that girl actually likes you, I have no idea how you tie your own shoes."

"Drop dead."

"It's not like you haven't been hoping I will with that spooooooky stare of yours," Keith countered, waving his fingers about like a pianist mad at work. "The event of my death would be the only possibility you would get the Silvio role. And if Shiro were off his meds."

Any lingering goodwill over their civil practice vanished. "Yeah? I suspected you went off yours years ago.” Lane growled, considering taking this outside. “I hope you’re not this much of a jealous sourpuss when I get cast as Silvio.” 

Very, very slowly, Keith advanced until he and Lance were but inches apart. Lance resolutely held his ground despite the fact he hated being in such proximity. “You’re an idiot, McClain. Whatever that girl wants from you, it’s nothing good.”

“Guys, back me up,” Lance complained, tapping his foot impatiently. “You think Nyma likes me, don’t you?”

Hunk’s mouth shifted to the side. "We-ell, uh...to be honest Lance, when I think of Nyma I sort of remember that scary movie you and I watched, Pidge.” 

"You'll have to elaborate. Do you mean Mean Girls?"

"No. I meant American Psycho."

"I'm surprised you recall anything of that movie, considering you spent almost the entirety of it with your eyes squeezed shut and your fingers in your ears." Pidge cracked.

“I remember some stuff! Like the most important line about Batement being just an abstraction and a front to appear normal in public. He hides his ‘cooooollllllddddd gaaaazzzzeee,’” he said sinisterly, waving his fingers. “Wooooooo. But he’s not the harmless guy he pretends to be. After all, ‘I simply am not there.’ Kinda get the feeling with Nyma."

“Hunk, c’mon, man. You’re supposed to be on my side here. I think she’s really nice.”

"Are you going to tell her you're bisexual?" asked Allura curiously.

A split second later Allura clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes the size of dinner plates. Pidge moaned, “‘Lura!” and Lance slowly turned to face her. “Oh, I-oh my God, I’m so sorry, Lance, I’m so sorry.” She sounded scared. “I...I forgot.” 

Keith’s bag fell to the floor. Lance’s head whipped around in Keith’s direction so fast he cricked it. 

Keith appeared to have been bludgeoned over the head from shock. He didn’t speak nor move, though his expression lasped into something between disbelief and numbness at growing realization that he’d won the lottery.

But then a ballistic contortion spasmed his mouth, and his face crumbled. Helpless. Hopeless. It asked for nothing, and said nothing, save for, ‘I have no hope.’ 

Deeply unsettled, Lance actually opened his mouth to ask if he were okay, but the fury that spread its fireworks and positively scarred Keith’s face with it stung. 

"Well?” He hoped he sounded bored. “If you're going to give me hell over this, just get it over with." The irony of the cross necklace he wore that his grandmother had given him for his first communion wasn’t lost on Lance. "I'm sure you're thrilled to have another dart in your arsenal. Well whoopty-fucking-do for you. You’ll have to take a ticket and get off the line, though. I'm done caring."

"Hey,” Pidge warned, cracking her fists. “You try giving Lance any shit about that, and I swear the Tooth Fairy is going to make you rich tonight."

But Keith simply seized his bag and stormed off. Hunk and Allura dove out of Keith’s path just in time to avoid being gone through than around. 

"The hell is with him?" asked Hunk in amazement when Keith turned right and disappeared. 

“Easy. He just danced with a gay,” said Lance loftily as he re-tied his shoes. “Probably needs to go douse himself with holy water before gathering a lynch mob from St. Vitus’s bingo participants tonight.” 

“Where the hell do you get off thinking that’s funny?” 

“I’m bi. I get to make that joke.” 

“Please don’t,” said Allura sharply, and Lance looked up startledly. “Sorry, Lance. It’s just…” She clearly was fighting to find the right words. “Altea is primarily Catholic. I don’t think anything like that would ever happen here, but I don’t like you talking like that.” 

“Kay. Sorry.” He rose, took a draft of the mineral water he’d been given and wiped his mouth. “That being said, I think I’m going to try now and do something I should’ve done a long time ago.” 

“....you’re not coming out to your parents, are you…?” Pidge asked slowly, taking Lance’s hand. “I’m not sure now’s a good time.” 

“Oh hell no.” Lance squeezed back and headed out, his friends uncertainly sharing a look before hurrying after him. “I meant I’m finally ready to take your advice. I’m never speaking to Keith Kogane ever again.”

~o*oOo*o~

When Lance opened Blue he deflated, bonelessly flopping forward in his seat. He was so exhausted the idea of making his rounds and going home to do math homework was even more appalling than normal. All he wanted to do was curl up in a tiny ball in his closet and breath in quiet, and let it breathe back into him. Or type. He loved typing whatever came to mind on his ancient computer, provided it was his own idea. 

He couldn’t quite help the small, giddy smile though. Nyma-one of those unforgivable people whom had been lovely well-before blossoming into a beautiful woman-wanted to go out with him. It would’ve been perfect if his friends had only been more supportive. If they’d only understood what it meant to him when Nyma could see him at his near-worst today and be interested anyway. 

And Keith. Practice had actually almost-ended on a good note between them, and then he had to open his mouth and show off his signature move, which was torching bridges. He went hot with dread as he remembered the fury in Keith’s face on his way out, and vowed he’d never allow himself to be in a situation wherein he and Keith were completely alone. If he sounded like a hypochondriac, well, he was also a Cuban queer living in Altea’s poorest neighborhood who’d soon as not be murdered on the way out of town.

Flowers. He suddenly imagined bluebells. He’d have to get Nyma flowers. The full implications of his new to-do list washed over him. And of course he’d have to pay for dinner...at Olive Garden. Oh. Lance straightened, wishing he’d suggested someplace else. The food represented two kinds of costs: One to his wallet, because that shit was expensive, and two, to his diet. Lance had only ever been to Olive Garden (which tragically came as close to ethnic dining as Altea was likely ever to have) when someone else had footed the bill. And the white powder that went into those breadsticks was probably cocaine instead of flour. He traced the digits 1-3-0 on the steering wheel, paused, and went for 1-2-5 instead. 

32 was a motherly sort of number like 48, but not what he needed. 30 wasn’t particularly inviting. There was something friendly and welcoming about the numbers 25 (masculine) and 24 (feminine like the number 6.) They just sounded better. 

He drew up an online menu on his phone along with three different restaurant calorie websites, attempting to estimate a caloric average. The minestrone soup and salad without dressing would have to do. He’d be a gentleman and let Nyma finish off the bread in lieu of stuffing it in his backpack. Hopefully she wasn’t the kind of girl who wanted to pay eight bucks for a sliver of pie when you could get a full one at the grocery store for less. 

Lance worried at his shirt hem. He had a smidgen of money in his account left over from his summer part-time gig as a barista, though it was also true he wasn’t having the best of luck fundraising eclectic and useless catalogue gadgets for his Moscow trip. Still, he thought as he keyed the ignition, tomorrow night would be a drop in the water compared to what he’d need anyway. It would be fine. More than fine.

His phone beeped and he saw a text from mama: abuela wants kno what u want for dinner 

Thanks but already ate with hunk and guys.

Lance pulled out of the parking lot, cranking down the window to inhale the promising scent of oncoming rain. Maybe he’d get caught up in it tonight during his rounds.  
He saw himself giddily spinning and slipping in a downpour. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

~o*oOo*o~

Nyma was pissed. More so than she'd ever been save once.

She was sitting inside the empty practice room in a corner, her mirroid eyes still flushed from crying. It strangely wasn’t a bad look for her, just as how it was perversely comforting to watch one’s reflection when you had a few tears. She was still reeling at just what a little bitch Ezor had been.

Who the fuck did Ezor think she was to judge Nyma when Ezor had all but frolicked up to her and showed her that post like it was nothing? She made a scathing noise. 

The problem with-or rather one of the many problems with-Ezor was the fact that just because she had some sister with down syndrome made her think was some veritable Mother Teresa. Ezor accused her both of using Lance and of being a manipulative shit, which had stung so badly she’d called Ezor a fugly whore. It was fair turnaround. 

Their arguing quickly esculated into shrieks and all the other girls had seen fit to slip out during. Ezor had eventually stormed off and screamed for Nyma to never talk to her again. Nyma had yelled, “Gladly!” as she left, which felt right because she had the last word. 

Which would've been very well had Nyma's car not still been in the shop, and Exor been her ride home. Well, fuck her. Daddy said he’d come soon, and she might just refreshen the memory her way out as to redew her eyes with tears.

Ezor. What kind of stupid fucking name was that. Future potential-employers were going to take one look at that godawful name and toss out her application. Her mother should've been punished by the full extent of the law for opening her legs for the FedEx man and reproducing. Nyma pulled up Twitter on her phone and furiously tweeted: when u think u kno someone your nice to & all they do is stab u in the back 4 coz u want to do something nice fuck u hater bich im a free spirt & u cant keep me down

She lowered her phone and waited, pleased in knowing that the troupe would immediately know of whom she was speaking of and that her other friends at school would start firing questions. She looked forward to telling them that she was too upset to go into details tonight, but she’d have their attention when everyone was conglomerated around Narti's car before class started on Monday. And then she’d tell everyone she felt sorry for a slow boy and humored his request for a date. 

Well, "Date" was the wrong word. She'd say "study session." She would patiently allow an igit to boost his ego by earnestly teaching her what she already knew.

And Nyma would tell her outraged friends that Ezor had seen fit to abandoning her at the studio after practice ended on Saturday. She wouldn't display any anger; she'd coo that she was just surprised and hurt, was all, that Ezor didn't think it was okay to socialize with "damaged" (the quotes would be Nyma's) people like Lance. That would set off some fireworks. Never mind the fact that Lance wasn't anyone Nyma's crowd would ever be caught dead interacting with, but as an abstraction he made Nyma look utterly magnanimous. Saintlike even. 

Her girlfriends would assure her that this kind of behavior was everything they'd come to expect from Ezor, whom had a fugly name. And those rumors about Ezor fucking Brother Maurice in exchange for a better grade in English? Not possible, but probable. That tramp runs off panting to the dog track holding her skirts up to take a squat in the cucumber patch.

Nyma stretched and all but purred imagining the filthy looks people would be firing at Ezor in the halls for the rest of the week. Let's see if anyone wanted Ezor at the table come lunch.

There was a rumbling outside and she wandered into the hall to look apprehensively out window. The skies were dirty-grey and churning and the wind buffeting itself at the windows: Let me in, let me in, let me in. 

Already she was partially-regretting her decision; she'd acted in the heat of the moment and accepted the first offer at hand. Lance was a sloppy choice at best. She wearily sat, pulled out a bottle of clear foundation from her bag and propped the bottle between her knees as she began touching up her nails.

If only Tommy and Brock hadn't had that fucking fight. It was a fine thing for them to act like such goddamned morons when she'd never explicitly told either of them she was dating them exclusively, or that they were a thing. Admittedly she'd said some less than flattering things to Brock about Tommy, and to Tommy about Brock, but she'd never expected them to crash into each other in St. Vitus’ halls like murderous boars. The nuns had a fine job of trying to pry them apart until Brother Ulaz came, and after that fight the two had both been expelled. Tommy had tried reaching out to Nyma later that night, but she'd had to wipe her hands clean of them both and he stopped trying soon enough. They probably wouldn't come out for a brief night on the town, though it was true the soccer and football athletes were infinitely better choices to be seen with than with Lance. 

She blew on her nails and pulled away the bottle before pulling out a carton of cigarettes. She was still a bit clumsy when it came to lighting one. After all, it'd always been him whom lit his first before leaning forward to press the burning butt end against the one waiting in Nyma's mouth. She lowered her lighter and took a long puff, the glowing ember a twinkling red star in the ill-lit building.

If she decided to cancel her so-called date, that would be all the validation Ezor needed regardless of what excuses Nyma came up with. And she'd miss an invaluable opportunity to do to Rolo what he'd done to her. The name innocently popped in her mind of its own volition and a fresh tear fell.

It would just be for one evening. And if Lance got any funny ideas about spreading rumors that they'd slept together, well, Nyma might intimate that she knew Zethrid had noticed Lance's mother outside Planned Parenthood a few months ago. Zethrid recognized Mrs. McClain from having seen her (sans her husband) for years at studio performances and special events. Their meeting hadn't exactly been friendly, however.

Nyma smiled a bit in amusement. Supposedly Lance's mom had been bearing pamphlets on the evils of abortion like the backwards squirrel-woman she was, and she'd tried giving Zethrid one on her way in. Thankfully Zethrid had told her where she could stick it. But what would such a woman do if she so just happened to find out that her son had the hots for Shiro like all the other ballerinas? That she’d once overheard heard Lance arguing with Allura over whether Juanes Vásquez or Chadwick Boseman were hotter?

No, Lance would keep his trap shut.

It was, Nyma thought as she took another long drag, admittedly a little harsh, but she consoled herself with the fact that she had every right to protect herself as a woman. Lance particularly owed her that because his mom would rather people pick unwanted fetuses growing inside like tumors out with coat hangers in their closet. Lance was probably the result of a good-faith but ultimately botched effort. 

The wind picked up and moaned, actively battering the trees cowering beneath it. The leaves madly twirled back and forth, showing their pale underbellies as they fell. She glared at her phone clock. Christ, but if mama or daddy didn't get here soon, she was going to fucking lose it.

A few paces behind her, the second occupant in the building silently put down his Nike bag. His motionless profile seemed to have been sliced out of stone and beneath the death mask smoldered tar-like eyes. He unblinkingly leaned against the theater wall with all the charm of a gargoyle.

Keith bowed, black hair fanning messily over his face as he waited for his chest palpitations to pool out. And then he slowly approached his classmate, hand casually slipping into his pocket and pulling out its content. Nyma blanched at the faint scrape of sneaker against concrete and turned in a second. 

Most unfortunately for Nyma, that had been a second too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When senpai notices the wrong person. Nope, nothing to see here, folks! By the way, having people obsessed with you isn't cute. It's creepy. Please don't romanticize it.
> 
> Next chapter's ballet scene: The wizard conjures up a parade of animals for a sickly-Angeline, none of which ultimately make her happy. Her uncle decides Angeline needs a companion, so Silvio is invented and introduced. The song themes preferably convey playfulness, innocence, sweetness, sorrow, or tenderness. Your contributions would be very much appreciated! 
> 
> I by no means represent the very diverse autism spectrum, but I do draw from my own experiences to write Lance. Some recurring traits among autistics include aversion to direct eye contact, anxiety due to change (Lance is used to being the cavaliere) low-frustration tolerance, hair pulling, lack of cognitive empathy, or the ability to understand social cues and the feelings of others. This means Lance can't really "read" a room's social context, which meant he couldn't pick up on the clues that Nyma wasn't being sincere with him. We learn about what it means to "stim" later and more on the conditions that will appear in this story.
> 
> I want to take a moment to thank a moment to thank my cherished, beloved, darling commenters from last chapter whom are intelligent, wonderful, kind, and probably very-good looking.: old_pens, Upandover360, cheesepizzef, hybridkitsune, Mermaid Lance, Cookies_and_Biscuits, rogueunicorn, Aeraspace, and SilverRoche. 
> 
> And for asmaanixx, for whom this chapter is dedicated with love and gratitude. ♥ If I get one heartfelt message like yours for this entire sordid story, it's more worthwhile than I can ever express. Thank you very much, darling. I promise to sit down and give your response the attention it deserves at my first opportunity.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated for having so much fun it ought to be illegal. As a matter of fact, the shenanigans that go down in this chapter ARE of the illegal and sadistic variety. 
> 
> I want to make it very clear that I'm not trying to romanticize Keith's antics in this chapter. Ultimately they're vicious and cruel, regardless of how manipulative Nyma was. Nor do I want to justify the violence Lance is inflicting on himself. These guys are human, and are fucked-up accordingly. 
> 
> *Whispers* Run for your lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I apologize in advance for the late addition; it's my goal to update monthly. But my mother passed on May first this year from Huntington's chorea. She'd been diagnosed in 2004 so we knew it was coming, but it's still a bit of shock to the system. I haven't been writing as much as I'd like to be. But you've all been so supportive and amazing, and it's been a tether out of a fog. Thank you thank you. So much for everything.

_ I have seen them riding seaward on the waves _

_ Combing the white hair of the waves blown back _

_ When the wind blows the water white and black. _

_ We have lingered in the chambers of the sea _

_ By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown _

_ Till human voices wake us, and we drown. -T.S Eliot, The  _ Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock _   
_

~o*oOo*o~

_ Twenty-four hours ahead of present time _

The shackle closed over his wrists in a deadly snap. Then the other. Both cut into his skin.

He dimly heard the policewoman recite him his rights-or soon lack thereof-in a well-worn flatline from behind. He’d seen the glint of a wedding ring on her finger when he’d made the mistake of opening the door; she was young, despite the premature world-weariness dulling the contours of her face. Maybe she had kids, probably despised him already judging by her aloof demeanor. Couldn’t blame her. He almost felt sorry for her. 

As she guided him down to the curb he sullenly stared at the tricycle and toys still littering the next-door neighbor’s driveway with red eyes. Maybe he still stank of weed, although a marijuana charge-at least one for a white guy-was the least of his troubles.

The police cruiser lights weren’t flashing. He wasn’t that important. A few cars slowed as they passed, a little kid waving from a car decorated with one of those obnoxious stick figure families. Drivers glanced curiously into his own personal tragedy. 

But they had other places to be. Work, Starbuck’s, busybody places like that and shit. For them there would be time-there would be time-for overpriced designer beverages. 

But his time was up. 

The officer opened the door and nudged him inside. He wordlessly obeyed, noting the bars and plexiglass separating front and back seats. Like a kennel in here. Not his first time in a cop car, but today it was the last. 

Police chick-he’d already forgotten her name-started the engine and away they went. He watched his house until it disappeared. He hoped hopelessly that it wouldn’t be too long before he came home again. But the evidence was damning, and unless he made a compelling insanity case-he almost smiled-well…

He’d better get used to seeing bars. For as nearly as many years as he was old. 

The sun grinned in through the window. His head flopped against the hard headrest and he sighed. Well, this certainly wasn’t unheard of, in his line of work. It was just always meant to happen to someone else, though, to some young idjit who couldn’t fucking learn the ropes of distribution. 

To his great disgust his eyes prickled and he blinked rapidly. Thankfully the officer wasn’t looking at him through her rearview mirror, or was pretending not to. Chances were good the collective amount of tears that must’ve been shed in this car were enough to flood it completely. Drown them both. 

A tear fell on his shoulder, on the tattooed digits of his little brother’s death date. As close to sentiment as he could normally afford. But he ought’ve saved room on his canvas skin for today’s date. Prison would take care of that, though. They’d give him a number all right, reduce him into one entirely in the eyes of the state. 

As they would his baby. 

His hands shook, craven for something to break, or to be broken. He’d probably pick a fight with the first inmate he saw, and thrash every inch of the poor bastard before being dragged off to solitary. Then again, it might very well be him doubled over on the floor, bruised inside and out. Possibly on the shower floor. At this point, it was all the same to him. 

He tried shifting his entwined wrists tucked behind his back. No dice. He’d lose feeling in his hands soon. Perhaps that numbness would gradually seep into the rest of his body. One could hope. 

He’d lived life contently enough, believing it was only his own skin that he was risking. While customers could count on him for discretion, he made it his business before a face-to-face meeting to make certain that his prospective client was damn sure what was at stake if someone discovered their contraband. If they were caught, well, at the very least they weren’t getting a refund. 

“Hey, lady. Any chance that I could get some air in here?”

The officer silently turned on the air conditioning. He’d meant he wanted the window opened a crack, although now that he thought about it that was a stupid thing for a felon to ask for. Might as well have asked for a strong martini. Shame. He could use one. 

There was almost a poetic-like irony in the fact that what had done him in wasn’t even work-related. He’d cut his own hair in the idiocy of believing in the trustworthiness of his money grubbing coworkers and in his needing to prove himself to them. No; he felt about his fate the way he had about this season’s Pittsburgh Pirate performance. Disappointing, yes, but something in retrospect he ought’ve expected….

But the agonizing fact that burnt his brains so and all but sent them oozing out his ears was that thanks to him, he’d dragged his beloved with him. His chest vibrated with sobs that were so loud they were silent. Down had came baby. 

_ Cradle and all _ . 

“Hey, uh...are...are prisoners allowed to write people?” 

“Yes, sir. But you haven’t been officially sentenced by the court yet.” 

What kind of stupid fucking answer was that. She knew the law better than he did. He wiped his nose on the upholstery.

His baby probably wouldn’t want any sick, sad letters from him, because a fucking library of apologies would never be enough. Still, he wished they could live in the same correctional behavior institution or whatever the fuck the authorities called the clink now. 

The only link they could have to each other now was that both their coffins were descending into the burning earth. 

At least they’d burn together.  _ Some consolation prize. _

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

_ Present Time _

__

“My love.  _ Mi amor _ .”

__

Lance woozily trickled awake in an expectant blue darkness, eyes gritty with sleep. Abuela stroked his shoulder and Lance realized he must've forgotten to set his phone alarm.

__

“Is time,” she murmured regretfully above him, as if there would be any other reason to wake him at six in the morning. “I sorry, waking you.”

__

“Nah.” He rolled out of his tiny twin bed with a yawn and wandered to his closet, drowsily glancing off the wall on his way. He felt for his old Adidas bag strap and strung it over his shoulder. “Just let me get semi-human _ muy rapido.” _

__

He guided Abuela out and turned on the hall light, eyes scrunching up at the glare bleeding orange-red beneath closed eyes. Still, having lived here all his life taught Lance to see the hall perfectly well even with his eyes shut: The light blue walls and their many veiny scratches like stretch marks that came from housing so many crayon-bearing children. The innumerable plaster-frosting crosses Abuela recovered from garage sales and dollar stores. They made, Lance thought sourly, the walk to the bathroom down the hall analogous to strolling a cemetery. One of the many reasons why he never invited his friends over anymore.

__

He dropped his bag and darted into the bathroom with all the excitement and trepidation of a Christmas child headed down the stairs, wondering just how good he’d truly been. Lance hopped on the new digital scale he’d bought himself; his family’s ancient meter scale was maddeningly unclear to him. 

__

His face slowly fell. Still 135. At 5’11 it wasn’t  _ bad, _ exactly. Still, he shed his sweatpants, flannel top, and sweatshirt before weighing himself again. 134.9. Lance couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so invested in numbers beyond personifying them, considering how poor his math grades were.

__

_ “Fuck...” _

__

It looked as if his metabolism was finally slowing down and his body was adjusting to the diet. He might want to up the ante and try a new one, but the idea of forgoing safe foods-ones that wouldn’t trigger a binge reaction-was every bit as attractive as personally handing Keith the Silvio role via diploma. 

__

He gazed at himself in the mirror, blue eyes feverish. Lance sucked in his chest and crowed inwardly as the contour of his ribcage came into sharper definition. Beneath the bars he felt a cataract of butterflies. 

__

Lance stroked his chest as he had last night under his comforter and one he’d filched from Luis’s room. Surely  _ The Lovely Bones _ referred to this intoxicating high of carving free of the suffocating confines of the Ghostbusters’ Stay-Puft Marshmallow monster. If only his fatty-ass pig self could keep it in check, soon Shiro would see just how hard Lance was prepared to work if given an opportunity to join a ballet company. 

__

Abuela knocked on the door and Lance hurriedly redressed, brushed his teeth, popped out and took his grandmother’s warm, small and papery hand.  _ “Vamos, senorita.”  _

__

They went to the kitchen on their way out, which was already-occupied. Abuela brightened. “Oh,” she said breathlessly, and Lance inspected the hobbit-like feet of his Third Least Favorite person in the world. “Luis.”

__

Lance’s father sniffed as he closed the refrigerator, scrubbing a scrubby face. He was swigging a lime Corona.

__

“Would you like come mass with us?” asked Abuela eagerly. “Is—“

__

Louie lowered his half-empty bottle. “What? _No,_ ” he spat, angrily gesturing at the stove clock. “What time do you think it is?” he demanded, clearly fighting to keep his voice down. Lance thought it was a decided improvement over their last encounter, but he glowered at Louie anyway. “Do you know, what time I came home last night? This morning, rather?”

__

“I know,” Abuela said meekly. “I just thought—“

__

“Obviously you didn’t, considering you ask such a stupid question.” 

__

_ “Hey,” _ Lance hissed, the warning in his voice already borderline threatening. “Who the  _ hell  _ do you think you—“

__

“I think I’m your father, the father breaking his back to keep roof over your head. You remember that-” Louie tipped the bottle spout in Lance’s direction. “-before you talk back to me.” He gestured to the door. “You don’t like it? Get out.” 

__

“No, no, no, boys, don’t start,” Abuela fretted, hurriedly nodding at her mutinous son as Lance opened his mouth. “Luis, I will have breakfast ready when I come back. Then you can eat whenever you get up.”

__

Luis Senior said nothing, but he stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door. Lance’s eyes slivered, and he briefly imagined being the sort of person who could actually hit his father.  Christ, but he hoped his confessor brought a bagged lunch next week.

__

“Well,” was all Abuela sighed after Lance worriedly looked her over. She patted Lance’s hand. “Come,  _ mi amor.  _

__

“Don’t be angry,” she said as Lance resumed helping her outside, where the world was sleep-muffled and silvery with the first frost of the fall. 

__

“I’m not angry.”

__

“Then give those hands break, ah?” She teased, and when Lance released his trembling fists he saw dark pink half-moon prints in his palms. "What handsome mustache man in overalls say in your games?  _ Let'sa go." _

__

The poor attempt at an Italian accent elicited a reluctant snort from Lance, as Abuela knew it would, and without much further ado Lance helped her into Blue's passenger seat.

__

His stomach prodded like an animal for attention and he tried hard not to dwell on how much he wanted an enormous bowl of Captain Crunch, even if it scraped the roof of your mouth raw and your inevitable second bowl would leave you feeling sick. Lately Lance had been thinking incessantly of food, to the extent that it was the first thing he thought about in the morning and was the last thing at night. And thousands of intervals in-between. It didn’t help that his favorite show was  _ The Great British Bake-Off. _

__

"I make breakfast later today," Abuela promised again as Lance pulled out of the drive. "Since you no practice Sundays. So what you want?"

__

"Thanks, but I'm actually going to Pidge’s for breakfast later this morning. But I'll pack a lunch to take with me today, too."  


__

"You still need to eat. Those bars? Those candy bars in pantry with protein? They taste like chalk. And last forever."

__

"Isn't that a good thing Like say, in a zombie apocalypse?"

__

Abuela was silent, but Lance could feel her best  _ Don't-Fuck-With-Me _ stare upon him. "Food is food. You either eat it or it spoils. Is natural. You are food you eat."

__

It struck Lance how much he felt like nothing at the moment. He had never wished so much for a police car to pull him over for speeding.  "Oh yeah, totally. I'm just going to crash at Pidge's all day and maybe get some studying in. Chances are good the Holts will feed us for lunch too, but again, I'll bring a lunch just in case."   


__

The creases lightened somewhat on Abuela's small forehead. "You all work yourself to death. Be sure you relax today. Eat lots."

__

"Always."

__

"And if Pidge's family invite you, you must invite them to our house. Sometime," she added quickly, and Lance knew that 'sometime' meant when Louie wasn't around.

__

"Right."

__

Lance uncomfortably suspected that Abuela was disappointed she wouldn't have his company for very long today. The Catholic guilt swooped on him like a carrion crow when he thought again about how much better things would be if only Abuelo were alive to take care of her. But it was also true that Lance couldn't imagine not coming home to Abuela now. The quiet hum of an empty house made home felt lonelier than hunger. 

__

Abuelo had died when Lance was five, and memories of the smiling, sad-eyed man were fond though fuzzy. There was always candy on his person and he listened and spoke to Lance as if he were another adult. The only other things Lance could remember about Abuelo was that he had gone prematurely grey and he was so soft-spoken his wife Milagros normally talked for both of them.  

__

“I feel bad, get you up so early when you work work work like Luis.” 

__

“Nah. I like this anyway,” said Lance half-truthedly. He didn’t really like being compared to his father. “Better than you power-walking to church again, right?” 

__

Abuela had moved in with her only son’s family shortly after breaking her hip earlier that spring. Physical Therapy had helped her improve some, though she was slow and her gait uneven to the extent her doctor supplied her with a walker. 

__

That hadn't stopped her from trying to walk to mass every day, a fact Lance had most unpleasantly discovered driving to the studio one morning to prepare for a performance of  _ La Bayadère _ . He’d passed a hunched-over figure tottering by and saw Abuela’s signature faded pink wrap out of the corner of his eye. He’d nearly suffered a coronary.

__

“I need go mass,  _ lucerito _ ,” she’d said simply when Lance pulled up beside her and rolled down the window. 

__

“Abuela, this isn’t  _ safe _ !” 

__

She shrugged. “Is no excuse me. I can no drive, but my legs work still.” 

__

Lance’s only response had been to open the passenger door. He wound up attending service with her, because there was no way in  _ hell _ he could allow Abuela to walk home either. He would’ve preferred to have simply dropped her off, but by the time Lance reached home he would simply have to turn around again to pick Abuela up as mass wrapped up.

__

Because Abuela insisted on going to church every morning she and Lance traveled like postmen to St. Vitus through fair and foul weather alike, although at least postmen had Sunday off. But Lance supposed that while he’d rather have an extra hour of sleep, he appreciated the security of a morning routine, especially when not following one could seriously throw him off for the rest of the day. And a reluctant part of him did genuinely enjoy the solemn, repetitive ritual of the Catholic mass, especially with someone he adored like Abuela. But he nonetheless rankled at the fact that no one else in the family could be bothered to take her when Abuela asked for so little. It was heart-rotting.

__

He turned his attention back to the road just as the upcoming light turned red. Too far away to legally power through the line and yet far too close for comfort, Lance stomped the brakes to a stop, arm flipping out to stop wispy and frail Abuela from smacking into the headboard. “Whoop! Sorry!” He slowly pulled his arm back as Abuela slumped against the seat. Thankfully the old woman didn’t seem the slightest bit miffed, or even ruffled. “Sorry, sorry…”

__

“Not you, not you. Traffic light.” 

__

“Looks like Fidel doesn't want us to get to mass today.” He gestured to the red light, comically raising an eyebrow with a paranoid frown. "The light's red. Coincidence?  _ I think not." _

__

Abuela hurriedly rolled down her window and actually shook her fist at the light, and Lance cracked up. He couldn’t help it. “ _ Simpatizante comunista! _ ” she cried, and Lance held up his cross necklace as if warding off a vampire. “Communist sympathizer! We get holy water after mass. Evil traffic light.” 

__

“Clearly. Castro just can’t let people have nice things.” 

__

The light turned green and they continued on their way, arguing over which politicians Castro had decided to possess in the last week. It was their old joke, although Lance sometimes was unsure of how much Abuela was actually kidding when it came to  _ ‘este bandido,’ _ the ruffian. That sobriquet was about as cruel as Abuela got, but it was disarming for Lance to hear her direct any sort of animosity towards anyone. 

__

For better or for worse, Abuela had an ability to forgive that would impress the saints in the polychromatic church tapestry of holy figures at St. Vitus. It was a fact that she'd once said a rosary in repose of the soul of the devil. ( _ "Maybe not too late him, if he just make nice and say sorry." _ ) But Castro was someone so unspeakably vile that Abuela crossed herself whenever his name was mentioned. “I pray for him,” she admitted reluctantly one Lent, although it was clearly perfunctory considering she all but threw a  _ fiesta  _ when he’d died two years ago. ( _ “No, no, no, Lance. No party celebrate dead ruffian. It just...calendar say here November 25th National Parfait Day _ .  _ That why party. _ ”) Never mind there wasn’t any yogurt served.  

__

She’d sobered considerably when Fidel’s little brother Raúl Castro took power. ( _ “He another evil spirit, Lance. Less bad than Fidel, but another murderer…” _ )

__

While Abuela never struck Lance as a conspiracy theorist, he remembered toddling in to the living room where his horrified mama and visiting-Abuela were glued to the television watching the fall of the Twin Towers. Abuela gravely sat back in the plaid chair like a queen, and muttered, "Castro. It Castro. I  _ knew  _ it, he back up old troubles."

__

When they arrived at St. Vitus Abuela took his arm again and they trekked across the mostly-deserted parking lot, shoulders huddled against the new crisp chill. They walked past tiny plaques set in the ground dedicated to dead couples whom had in all likelihood made generous donations to the church, past the still-dark school buildings. Abuela came to a stop and Lance looked at her questioningly. “Ah. I wish I send here nice school, Lance. Like you friends.” 

__

He hugged her one-armedly. “C’mon. Altea Senior High isn’t so bad.” Even if he had no friends there and spent every lunch hiding in the library. “And you know I’d rather have ballet over prep school anytime.” 

__

When they entered the chapel foyer Lance inhaled the wood-and-incense smell that seemed ubiquitous of most Catholic churches he’d visited. He studiously ignored the pamphlet stand featuring kickers such as  _ Advocating a Pro-Life Government  _ and  _ So You’re Battling Same-Sex Attraction _ . There were also paper collection boxes for children in impoverished nations. These charity drives were both consolation and a menstrual pang for Lance, and he coveted a reality wherein every single Catholic church was as purely repulsive to him as a Westboro Baptist one. 

__

There was a new advertisement at the bulletin board for an upcoming bake sale to fund a new giant centerpiece cross.  _A billion grave markers in the world and no one will fund art school programs that keep kids out of trouble. Nice. Real nice. _ That probably wasn’t fair, but Lance didn’t care. Or rather he wished he didn’t. 

__

After a quick dab of holy water in the chapel he carefully helped Abuela through a shaky genuflect and he lowered her on a pew kneeler. He did likewise and clasped his hands together. 

__

He wasn’t sure in the slightest whether or not he believed in a God, or at least a benevolent one. To Lance, God was largely akin to his school principal Varkon, a distant presence whom did exercise some sort of authority and might be some assistance to Lance if he so chose, but he didn’t, and Lance was more-or-less content to leave it at that. Jesus wasn’t that much more appealing, considering how fucking  _ tired _ Lance was of people slipping in their own intolerable agenda into otherwise nice teachings. 

__

It was weird how people used a man who loved children, underdogs and fluffy sheep to convey: _ ‘Love me, or make no mistake I’ll kill you,’ _ but folks managed, as they had for thousands of years. 

__

Lance kept his gaze averted from the Jesus statues and contemplated a figurine of the holy madonna cradling a child in her arms. He suddenly felt oddly jealous. 

__

On the rare occasion Lance was inclined to ask for divine intervention Mary was his go-to as the ultimate picture of serenity and benevolence. He thought of Nyma and bowed his head. 

__

However much Lance enjoying flirting, his autism diagnosis drove home the fear that he might be alone for the rest of his life. Even now he sometimes worried how his own friends could stand him when he must seem so needy. But Nyma, an impossibly-beautiful ballet dancer was _ interested _ . He should light a candle after mass. 

__

_Please, let this go well for me tonight. Please. _

__

Mass began and the priest’s reading was the story about Jesus magically creating wine at the wedding feast. Something Lance had heard dozens of times before. Still partially-asleep he went through the motions as mechanically as he had his opening ballet exercises yesterday. Lance turned his attention to the talon scaling his stomach.

__

Hunger left you feeling curiously clean and fresh, like the sticky sensation of a good cry. The pain felt like an offering, somehow. No wonder so many religions incorporated it into their practice. To whom or what Lance wasn’t sure. Himself? His family? His loved ones? Better not to think about it too much; if somehow his new diet were on behalf of someone else, it would be that much easier for him to maintain. A second later Lance reminded himself that he really wasn’t hungry at all and that hunger was an abstract concept that had nothing to do with him. 

__

When he went up for his communion wafer and sip of wine he couldn’t help but want more however, despite the fact he had no idea what their caloric values were. He’d have to Google them later on.  

__

When service concluded he and Abuela hung back to chat with elderly folks whom ventured daily to mass. Lance was pet and fussed over like a small dog, and he smiled wanly as they strongly-hinted their granddaughters were single. 

__

“No, no, he have date tonight,” said Abuela proudly. A wizened senior with tufts of grey hair sprouting out his ears gave Lance an approving thumbs-up.

__

“Oh, veerryy nice. No wonder you wanted to be a ballerina.” Lance didn’t bother correcting him with  _ ballet dancer _ anymore. “Get first dibs on all the girls you want. Atta boy, Lance. She Catholic?” 

__

“...yeah…”

__

He didn’t know, but there was only one safe answer. Later that day he’d consider what he’d do if Nyma were an observant Catholic, which was entirely feasible in this town. Maybe it would not be entirely lying, to present Nyma with at least one valid side of himself. 

__

The old man clasped his shoulder and Lance longed to knock the hand aside. “Hey. At least there’s always the priesthood for you if it doesn’t work out. Maybe you can still dance ballet on the side after all, huh?” 

__

His peers howled with laughter and Abuela tutted, guiding Lance towards the double doors. “Ignore them. You do what you like,  _ mi amor. _ Do what you like best.” 

__

When Lance pulled into their drive and let Abuela out again, she motioned for him to follow her back inside. “Lance, you eat.” 

__

“I’m eating at Pidge’s house, remember? Don’t worry. Honestly, Hunk, 'Lura and I are probably gonna eat poor Mrs. Holt outta house and home. That is if Colleen hasn’t already put a mortgage on her house ‘cause of how much Pidge can put away, too.” 

__

“Ah.” Abuela scrutinized Lance’s shapeless form in his lumpy layers. “But you eat something first.” 

__

“I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

__

“I no mind. Just few minutes, make french toast.” 

__

Lance shook his head apologetically. “Thanks, but Mrs. Holt always makes a boatload of food and I don’t wanna seem rude.” 

__

Abuela’s face slowly fell and Lance ruefully played with the tiny toy owl on his key chain. All he really wanted was to  _ get going, _ and to not feel like a loser doing so. 

__

"At least you have few minutes?” she asked timidly and Lance cursed as his Grinch heart stood at attention. “Before you go. Some coffee."

__

_ No.  _ "...sure. I need to make a lunch anyway.” 

__

The dimples appeared in Abuela’s wrinkly soft cheeks and they went inside. Lance was glad the kitchen was empty; he’d soon as not have mama nag him about his homework as if he were seven instead of seventeen. And he didn’t think he had the energy for another round with Louie in him.  

__

Abuela bustled to the coffee press and Lance preoccupied himself with packing a lunch. With any luck Abuela was watching and she’d assume he was eating enough. Or rather, too much. 

__

Lance could eat sandwiches every day and as of late he  _ did _ ; today he prepared the same veggie and egg-white sandwich he’d been eating every lunch for days. The recipe included no cheese and the sliced vegetables were flavored with nothing but pepper. The bread clocked in a worryingly 200 calories, but after some trial and error Lance learnt the cardboard diet bread that tasted like Disappointment would simply send him spiraling into a binge. 

Judging by how well his new diet had been going so far, it seemed the secret to losing weight was to convince the body it wasn’t being deprived. That was partially why Lance drank diet coke and black coffee near-constantly throughout the day to bloat himself. It meant several more trips to the bathroom, but that was simply the price he’d pay for caffeine to stifle his appetite. 

__

_ “Still _ think you should eat,” called Abuela disapprovingly. Lance took another apple to appease her. 

__

“Aw, I’m set, Abuela,” said Lance fondly, opening a tupperware container of eggwhites he prepared the night before. Thankfully no one else in the house could stand them, and so they remained untouched. 

__

Lance’s vegetarian sandwich had 100 calories worth of egg whites for his daily protein intake. His Granny Smith slices amounted to 50 calories. A small bag of baked Ruffles made for 150 calories. And two chocolate cookies he always saved for the end weighed in at 400 calories. That was a lot, but it was a treat for a job well-done at 800 calories. A mini sugar binge. To everyone at practice it would be perfectly presentable, and no one would likely assume Lance ate neither breakfast or dinner. 

__

Mama had been fussing lately that all Lance was eating for dinner was junk food, because he kept bringing home a Happy Meal box every night before disappearing into his room. Never mind that it was the same empty box he recycled every day. That was no one’s business but his own, although it was leading to more and more nights of him clawing at the walls out of sheer hunger. 

__

After he finished he sank down at the kitchen table, worrying his lip. As for dinner tonight, well, hopefully Nyma’s presence would remind Lance to keep it in check. His worst fear was that eating  _ anything _ apart from his safe foods, all of which had to be eaten in the same pattern, would trigger a gorge response on Augustus Gloop-proportions. That would be catastrophic in more ways than one.

__

It had already happened two or three times since the diet began; the first time was when a well-meaning Hunk brought doughnuts to class for Coran’s birthday. And there were actually some pastries sprinkled with coconut, so Lance had assumed there wasn’t much harm in having just  _ one. _

__

While Abuela’s back was still turned Lance raked his arm in disgust, not enough to bleed but definitely enough to hurt. 

__

For whatever reason the doughnut sparked a blood sugar plummet in such a way his two-daily cookies did not; Lance had stuffed down his lunch later that day so quickly he nearly choked and his esophagus  _ ached _ . 

__

To his skyrocketing dismay his normal daily meal hadn’t  _ nearly _ been enough. Hunk gently asked if Lance would like anymore of the leftover donuts-it wasn’t as if most of the ballerinas had touched any-and Lance scarfed down two on his own, sneaking a third when Hunk wasn’t looking. If Lance had loved Hunk any less he would’ve thrown Hunk down the stairs. 

__

Lance rushed home from practice that day without changing out of his ballet uniform, or prowling his nightly-rounds around Altea. He was utterly sick with himself and exhilarated both, because what the fuck did it  _ matter _ what he did now? The day had been entirely ruined, and he found himself more than willing to take advantage of the opportunity to stuff the human garbage disposal he was. 

__

Like a junkie craven for his fix Lance had clumsily fumbled with the lock and hurtled into a dark, silent house. It was impossible to understand what he craved more-for no witnesses, or for someone to  _ stop  _ him. 

__

But he’d ultimately obeyed the siren call of the pantry and crept towards it, feeling considerably more trepidation as some unwanted lucidity shone through his haze.  _ I don’t want this. I don’t want this _ . 

__

Lance gingerly opened the door anyway, hot with fear and dread. He’d have just a bit more of something sweet, since he’d already been contaminated today. He’d make up for it tomorrow, when he’d have his new start and be clean again. 

__

But when Lance had had his first handful of sweet dry cereal his mind became a tiny lantern some trillion miles away and he knew damn well it wouldn’t stop there, despite how much his heart pattered in alarm.

__

He actually devoured half a box of Frosted Shredded Wheat without bothering to get any milk. He polished off one of Louie’s candy bars, and one compartment of Chips A’Hoy cookies turned into three. Lance had eaten from a sense of sickening fullness and a bottomless desire that meant he attacked a bag of Doritos next, all but smashing them into his mouth.  

__

He’d grabbed a box of Duncan Hines brownie mix and dumped it into a bowl, adding the vegetable oil, water and eggs with shaking hands before rapidly whipping it together. The brownie batter never made it into the oven; Lance started spooning it in almost at once. He’d finished a third of it before forcing himself to scrape the remainders down the disposal, retching. 

__

Afterward he’d felt desperately sick and slapped himself until he cried. The only solution after that was to jog to the nearest convenience store inconveniently located two miles away to buy replacements so no one at home would be the wiser. He even made himself eat the third of cereal that had been missing in the original box so as to make it seem untouched, and likewise the Doritos. Still, his pants were tighter the next morning and he couldn’t bear to check the scale for two whole days. 

__

Nope. It would look too suspicious if Lance ate nothing at on his date tonight, but he’d order a salad sans dressing. There were worse things to binge on, although Lance thought stuffing yourself to the gills with salad left you feeling curiously both full and empty. Like waking up with a binge hangover.

Abuela handed him a cup of black coffee, which he blew at hastily before managing a few painful swigs. He stood and Abuela smoothed his back, and the soothing gesture made Lance feel even more ashamed. “I afraid I need get ready too. I leave and visit my nephew Benito tonight,” She reminded as Lance hugged her goodbye. “Been long time I see his family. He pick me up, later on. Stay two days.”

 

“You’ll have to let me know how that goes,  _ chica bonita _ .”

 

“And you your date,” she said, chuckling as Lance scrutinized a magpie perched outside the window. “You take some flowers my garden. She impressed, this girl, yeah.” 

 

“.... _ thank you.”  _

 

Abuela's large, dark eyes twinkled in their folds of wrinkles. _ “De nada,  _ darling. Good luck.”

 

He pecked Abuela goodbye and climbed into his car again, glancing at his lunch longingly. How much he’d like to it eat it now, but if Lance were hungry now, he’d be ravenous come lunch.   


 

His phone beeped and he looked down to see a message from Hunk:  _ You still coming _ ?

 

Lance hesitated. The craven, twitching hungers inside were roaring for him to comply-and yet. The regret was already here, and he felt lonely. Not to mention quite stupid; after all, the two hours he had left before Saturday morning practice would be a self-imposed isolation. 

 

But he knew himself well-enough that if he didn’t have some quality alone time this week-especially considering what kind of nervous tanglewreck he was likely going to be around Nyma-class tomorrow would be harder than normal for him to maintain his concentration.  _ And  _ Lance would be crabbier. It wasn’t as if Keith needed any more ammunition against him at this point. He shivered. 

 

No. He’d wrap a red string-preferably blue, actually, red made him think of Keith too much-and remind himself to withdraw inside himself. It was there he felt the silent consistency of _being,_ regardless if pots and pans were crashing about his head or someone were out to destroy any scraps of self-worth he had. That silent self would be steadying enough. 

 

That, and the knowledge that Lance could very well have the upper hand on Keith if he just practiced a _bit_ more, even on Sunday when the studio was closed, was enough. Or would have to be.  


 

After some thought Lance texted,  _ Im really sorry man but my grandma asked me 2 run a few errands t-day and to take her to visit her nephew. I don’t think i can make it today :(  
_

 

Hunk immediately replied:  _ Bummer. :( no worries tho ill just make u a plate and save it for you tomorrow  
_

 

Yes, yes, yes,  _ no _ . Lance groaned, reluctantly texting: _ac_ _ tually, abuela made me cinnamon rolls the size of my head this morning, so im pretty stuffed, lol. _

 

Hunk didn’t reply immediately, so Lance hurriedly added,  _ The sad thing is that while i could hibernate right now from fullness, the carbs and sugar mean im gonna be freaking hangry come lunch anyway.   
_

 

Lance let out a long sigh when the mini dots appeared in the speech bubble as Hunk began typing.  _ Aw, thats kind of a given with me, lol. :D no need to be hangry, roflol _

 

_ Thanks, man. ^_^  _

 

_NP my dude_

 

Lance almost laughed bitterly. If he'd lost a pound for every lie he'd ever told, there'd be no need for diets of any kind. This was the stuff of nightmares that kept him awake at night-that he was so flagrantly dishonest with people temporarily insane enough to want anything to do with him.

 

He started the car and made for the community gym, hoping he'd be on time for the 8:30 Hot Room Yoga class. Yes, he'd love to find absolution in Confession, but surely the pastor would be just a little sick of assigning Lance growing amounts of Hail Marys each and every week for a sin he couldn't seem to stop committing. The rage he felt himself was sickening, nearly-paralyzing.

 

It just wasn't enough to make him stop.

~o*oOo*o~

  
Late that evening at home, after Lance at last crawled out from the hot bath he'd drawn up for his trembling muscles, as the sun gradually sank and played voyeur through his bedroom window, Lance stood in front of his mirror, fingers drumming atop the open buttons at his collarbone. He slowly buttoned one and in a heartbeat undid it again. Lance _hated_ the chafe and suffocating grip of collared shirts on his neck, which made every rare occasion he dressed up a misery because _all_ the hand-me-down shirts he’d received that had any semblance of dressiness had collars and seams that _itched_. 

 

He ripped off the white shirt and flung it on the bed, where three other discarded shirts already lay crumpled. The profound discomfort he experienced with clothing that hadn’t been softened by innumerable washings was probably a genocidal plot by clothing companies to murder autistics. Perhaps they were at the least hoping to keep them from looking presentable and thus limit their chances of procreation. 

 

Lance looked at his torso in the glass and sucked in his stomach, shivering as his ribs came into sharper view again. The succor he felt at catching a glimpse of what was coming-of what would simply be-fogged sweetly over him like a cloud of manna. 

 

His face fell a little as he thought again of the food Olive Garden had. One of those breadsticks would be a greasy magic wand that when waved over his legs would reduce them into spreading hot hams spiderwebbed with stretchmarks. He could honestly just tell Nyma that he was training to be Silvio and was dieting. Maybe Nyma would understand. Lance recollected lifting her when they’d been paired up in performances of  _ The Blue Dahlia  _ and in  _ Anna Karenina _ . His hands had perspired so much he was scared silly that he’d drop her, but Nyma was so impossibly light she probably had to shop for a size negative two. She weighed less than Hunk’s cat. It was propitious then that Lance decided against getting her chocolates; Nyma might actually hate him a little for that. 

 

He hopped on the scale he’d moved into his room that afternoon, just to check that nothing had changed in the past two hours. 134.4. Close. He was zeroing in. 

 

No, unless Nyma had a garbage-disposal metabolism like Pidge’s, she’d understand that he wouldn’t eat much. Maybe she’d even admire him for being able to stay on a diet in a restaurant. If he could stay on a diet in a restaurant. Why couldn’t they go to an Ethiopian restaurant? People probably didn’t even  _ eat  _ in Ethiopian restaurants. 

 

He un-enthusiastically looked over the shirts on the bed, knowing he’d have to choose one eventually, though Lance wouldn’t wear a tie at his own funeral. And then, as unbidden as a car crash and with just much brutal impact came the memory of Keith dancing with him yesterday. Lance would as soon as relive his middle school days, which he’d taken great pains to suppress. 

 

Hands tangling in the pink shirt that Abuela got him, Lance spurred the image of bluebells-an enormous, sloping field of bluebells, flapping furiously in the wind and looking for all the world a waving sea-to tumefy into something the size of a whale in his perception. But the sensation of Keith’s hard hands pressing into his shoulder and  _ stomach _ remained the bigger fish. 

 

The bluebells withered in a fiery gale, the bittersweet heat of the moment surging into Lance’s face. He had actually gyrated around what had seemed like a bonfire in human form during his and Keith’s partnership. Despite the calculated steps Lance had taken so much pain to memorize because three minutes’ worth of dancing on the stage was culminated from hours and hours and hours of work, his dancing hadn’t felt elegant so much then as it had primal. Whatever he happened to feel like dancing. And with so little protest Lance had swirled like a gymnast’s ribbon or a sea serpent alongside _ fucking Keith Kogane, _ orbited him like a floating planetary ring of dust and ice. He grit his teeth and grabbed a light blue shirt, buttoning it half-way like so many Hollywood stars did. 

 

God, but that the trauma of that experience would follow him the way memories of Lance being a dumbshit struck him inopportunely like a misused croquet mallet. 

 

Lance dabbed on some ancient cologne that had been in the bathroom cabinet since Adam and Eve’s prime. It then occurred to him that he didn’t have the slightest idea as to what  _ talk _ about, once he and Nyma actually sat down. Sufficient to say they had ballet in common, but she was probably sick to death of talking about it. It seemed every bit as bright as taking out a coworker from Office Depot and initiating a long, detailed conversation on copier paper. Lance peeked inside his closet in hopes of some promising subject material. 

 

He jingled a box full of antique keys he'd salvaged from garage sales and thrift shops despite having no idea as to what they opened. There was a get-well card from his ballet class when Lance had had his tonsils taken out at age eight. He could only assume Ms. Trigel forced Keith to sign it, and the spiky signature was accompanied by a frowny face. 

 

There were love letters he'd never sent (most of them addressed to Hunk) a rusty rapier the props department in their studio threw out that Lance smuggled out of the dumpster, a portrait of a dignified-looking penguin he'd made out of decorative burnt toast, morbid children's stories with macabre illustrations when Lance could find them, an unused date book from 2004 with pressed flowers from his trip to Cuba, a short but friendly letter he’d received back from Mr. Rogers, a broken Polaroid and an accompanying set of photos mostly featuring chewing people, a bag of turnip seeds, coins he'd stolen from fountains, a creepy taxidermied cat named Kova Haggie had left Lance in her will that he didn't have the heart to throw away, a ballet program featuring the first lead role Lance starred in, T.S Eliot volumes, Harry Potter books whose jackets Lance hid in construction paper because Lance's parents said they were satanic, a chipped music box with a Jesus figurine whose head had been switched out with a Bratz doll’s, his Abuelo’s dusty violin, a sandalwood box Hunk had given him as a souvenir from Samoa, a snow globe Allura brought back from England, and a miniature guillotine that Pidge thoughtfully produced from her summer trip to Paris. 

 

It was a collection that left precious little to the imagination. And he needed a topic that was  _ something  _ of interest...

 

Lance pulled out a neglected album and swiped off the dust, sitting down in his tiny closet as he liked to; it felt as if the walls were holding him in a loose hug. He quickly flipped past the family photos and halted at the pictures of Lance’s first ballet performance,  _ Alice in Wonderland _ . There he was in all his four year old glory, chest puffed out and glowing in his exuberance at starring in the role as a blue flower in the Garden of Talking Flowers and Fungi. Hunk was shyly hiding behind him in his sunflower costume, insofar as the larger boy could really hide behind Lance. And there was a dour Keith in his purple tulip suit. Lance had drawn a monocle and goatee over his photographed face. 

 

Then followed photos of the reception. Hunk’s cheek was smeared with frosting and Lance’s lips were red from punch. And then Lance was in Marco’s arms, the older child grinning with a smile missing his two front teeth. The tooth fairy had revisited Marco just days after he’d lost the first tooth tumbling from the rings at the park. Lance turned the page so quickly he gave himself a papercut. 

 

Scenes from  _ Mother Goose, Robin Hood _ , and the ubiquitous  _ Swan Lake _ . As young as seven years old Pidge was flipping off the photographer in class photos. Allura was a glittering, luminous cloud in her little snow princess dress. Lance remembered more than a few boys in their class had made her exempt from their general cootie policy.

 

There were photos of people carefully applying their makeup, celebratory pizza parties at arcades after performances. Lance noticed that even when everyone was positioned in pictures according to height (which meant that Pidge was always in front) the four of them found ways to cuddle around each other like puppies, to slip in bunny ears and embraces. He turned the page, wiping his eyes. 

 

Allura and Hunk making faces in the back of vans whilst traveling to compete. Forming human towers that looked like grotesque totem poles for candid shots. That time they’d gone to the city and taken a photo in front of a fountain, shortly before Lance initiated a splash fight with Allura. He turned the page to see a drenched Shiro trailing out of the water, Lance and Pidge clinging to their benighted instructor’s arms, and Hunk and Allura to his legs.

 

Lance couldn’t bring himself to progress much farther than that, though the book was fat with pictures back before the digital photo craze hit. The volume slipped from his fingers. 

 

This year would mean that the only friends whom had been kind enough to have him would soon all scattered to the winds. Lance had no friends at school-too many years of being ignored taught him to ignore everyone else in turn-and that had been fine, really, because rejecting people before he could be rejected in turn seemed the lesser of two evils. Ballet had been enough-knowing his trio’s ubiquitous presence was enough to keep him feel connected to people. 

 

And soon that would be just a pipe dream. He’d have to build up a new network of friends, even if that sounded every bit as delightful as eating tripe every day for the rest of his life. But, Lance reasoned as he rose to collect Abuela’s flowers from the backyard, if he had to start from the very beginning, Nyma was a very good place to start. 

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

Because it was Saturday evening and Olive Garden was the closest thing Altea had to fine dining, finding parking was analogous to finding decent space outside a superbowl stadium. But at last Lance squeezed into a spot. He puffed up his cheeks and let out a long breath through pursed lips when he accidentally nicked the car beside him opening his door. 

 

Abuela gave Lance her blessing to cut marigolds from her garden. He clutched the fiery flowers against his heart as he walked to the restaurant. The deviation from his normal routine was a little uncomfortable, but tonight it would be worth it and then some. 

 

He was relieved Nyma hadn’t asked him to pick her up. Blue was beautiful and Lance would happily run down anyone in the street who said otherwise, but she certainly didn’t compare to the glossy, ash-colored Cadillac that looked as if it’d sped straight out of a car commercial. 

 

Lance grinned broadly to see Nyma already waiting by the entrance, playing with her phone. He strode a little faster to her, heart singing in his footsteps. She looked up at his approach. "Hey, you. Hope traffic wasn’t too bad.” 

 

“Hey!” With that falsetto of his Lance could probably pursue a promising opera career. He pushed the flowers into Nyma’s hands, praying the stems didn’t feel sweaty. “Um, here. These actually come from my garden.” Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ , but that nearby police siren was probably in actuality Nyma’s gaydar going off. “I mean my  _ family’s _ garden. When I saw them, I thought of you. Uh, bright, I mean.” 

 

Nyma blinked, startled. A second later she smiled, leaned forward and actually pinched his cheek. It bloomed peach-pink under her touch. “You’re such a sweetheart.  _ Thank you _ .” 

 

"Welcome, welcome!” However patronizing the move might’ve seemed, she’d appreciated the gesture. He stared into Nyma’s blue eyes as intently as possible, and he was surprised when she turned her own gaze away first, looking slightly uneasy. But it only lasted a moment. She cocked her head. “Did you make reservations?” 

 

"No," he admitted, shamefaced.  Nyma’s grin hardened the slightest degree.

 

“Oh, well. We’ll like, manage in time, like, you know what I mean?”

“Do you have a curfew?” he asked curiously. Nyma giggled as the two wandered into the entrance, the clamor and clink of plates of a crowded restaurant washing over them. Lance refrained from stroking his shirt hem. 

 

“You’re so, like, cute. No, I don’t.” 

 

They joined a long line. “Oh. I just thought because you said we’d have dinner ‘in time.’”

 

“Well, I like dinner like, at a certain time every day. You know what I mean?”

 

Established routine. That was reassuring. “With any luck the wait won’t be too long,” he remarked, watching the hostess directing people aside. None of the folks had yet been ushered into the packed dining room. “If it is, we can always go someplace else.”

 

Nyma’s fingers clenched her flowers, and a few gold petals fell to the floor. “No...no, this place is fine. Like, you know what I mean?” 

 

“Absolutely!” No, Lance did not know what she meant, unless she were implying he was a cheapskate. “Hello, ma’am,” he greeted the hostess. “Two?”  

 

The harried-looking young woman nodded wearily. “Wait time is twenty minutes.” 

 

Nyma’s eyes fell on two empty tables pushed together. “Like, what about that space?”

 

“It’s actually been reserved for a party of ten, ma’am. They should be coming in any moment, now.” 

 

“Oh, perfect!” she said breathlessly. “I’d like that seat like, by the window beside them, then, please.” 

 

“Well, it’s currently being occupied, and the wait time is-” 

 

Nyma hastily opened her purse and thrust a few crumpled bills on the hostess’s small pulpit. “How about now?”

 

Clearly dumbfounded, the woman stared at the littered money. “Um. Still twenty minutes, ma’am. Although….I can seat you at the bar, maybe….?” 

 

"No, I'd like that table, please."

 

“Ma’am, it’s still occupied…” 

 

Lance clapped a hand against his mouth as Nyma flounced into the dining room, marching over to the table next to the window where two curly-haired women sat over salad. Nyma came over a stop, presumably talking to them both. Lance hurriedly pricked his ears but could make nothing out in the dim. 

 

Nyma opened her purse again, but the older of the two women slowly rose and took her hands, shaking her head. The brown-haired woman stood as well, patting Nyma on the back. A moment later they left their dinners and waddled away, one of them waving as they left the dining room, and made for the door. It took Lance a moment to realize everyone behind him had gone still. 

 

Radiant, Nyma made her way back over. "Now it  _ isn't _ . Like, occupied. Can you clear it away for us, please? Do you know what I mean?”

 

“Certainly, ma’am. You can go on over.” The steel in the hostess’s voice fell like a trap. Lance gave her an apologetic glance as he followed Nyma into the dining room. 

Did that just happen? That just happened. He was both horrified and impressed. 

 

"Wow.” Uh. Lance wasn’t a superstar at picking up social cues. Was he supposed to have had helped pay for that? Was that something people  _ did,  _ outside movies? “Whoa. I like a lady who knows what she wants." 

 

“A lady, like, needs her priorities. Do you know what I mean?”

 

Lance nearly sat before remembering he ought to pull out Nyma’s chair, and he jumped up again, nearly tripping over himself doing so. “What did you tell those ladies, if you don’t mind my asking? Did you just...ask them to go?” 

 

“I just said, like, a friend of mine had been, like, feeling very sick for a long time, and that, like, tonight was his first time up and about in like months. And that, like, it would mean a lot if like, he could just sit down for a bit and like, enjoy himself. You know what I mean? Like, I offered them some money, but, like, they were very nice about it and like, just gave it to me."  


 

“...oh.” What the fresh hell did he say to that? 

 

Nyma winked. “I don’t feel a little, like, white lie hurts, like, now and again. You know what I mean? Besides, I didn’t, like, want you to have to, like, wait. You’re  _ totally _ worth it. Do you know what I mean?” 

 

Lance wondered if Nyma had the meanest way of being nice or the nicest way of being mean. But the knowledge that someone had done that for him was exhilarating. “Whoa. I just...thank you.” 

 

“Welcome, sweets.” 

 

A waiter bustled over almost immediately to clear away the half-full plates, and Lance thought the man might’ve been warned by the hostess to get the two out as soon as possible. 

 

“Excuse me?” Nyma asked before the waiter could walk away with the dirty dishes. “Could you possibly bring me a berry sangria?” 

 

“Absolutely, ma’am. And you, sir?” 

 

“...um, just water with lemon, please, thanks.” 

 

When the waiter left, Lance asked in astonishment, “I thought you were seventeen?” 

 

“Actually I’m like, sixteen, going on like, seventeen. But I don’t look it, do I?” said Nyma lazily, flipping over the side menu. “You know what I mean? He didn’t even card me. Although Robert, like, knows by now to be, like, my server if he can.” 

 

“Are you two friends?” 

 

“Something like that. Let’s just say, like, if you’re like, saving up for a Playstation 4, you like, learn to appreciate tips, and like, be pretty open-minded.” 

 

“That’s...that’s pretty cool.” He and his friends were pathetically lame when it came to teenage shenanigans; their idea of a wild night consisted of an Apples to Apples or Cards Against Humanity tournament with fountains of soda. “Are you going to need a ride home tonight?”  

 

“Oh, like, that isn’t even enough to give me a buzz,” said Nyma dismissively. “Even at my weight.” 

“I’d probably kill a small woodland creature to be at your weight.” Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay-soon, Nyma would guess Lance was both gay AND possibly-part European. 

 

“So, Shiro thinks you can start training for Angeline soon. Just between us, I think you’re a shoe-in for the role.” He actually thought Allura had a metaphorical and literal leg-up on Nyma, but it sounded nice. 

 

“Aw.” 

 

“Are you hoping to go on to New York?” 

 

“Of course. Although, like, LA’s a great second pick. Still, like, I’ll take Anywhere, Nebraska like, over here. Or like, hell, even Wyoming. Do you know what I mean?” 

 

“I have a theory about Wyoming. It’s not a real place. Seriously, have you ever actually met someone from Wyoming?” 

 

Nyma lifted a brow. “You’re like, so funny. Like, you’d make an adorable Silvio, by the way.” 

 

“Thanks! I seriously want that role more than any other our troupe’s cast. And I absolutely get what you mean by wanting...to make dust and get outta here. Might be a longer wait time then what we had getting in.”

 

Nyma glanced over at the still-empty reserved tables a few feet away. “Like, Keith  _ might _ stand, like a chance if he weren’t, like, such a little  _ bitch.”  _

 

The waiter arrived with their drinks before Lance could respond, although his mood skyrocketed so it was a wonder it didn’t break though the ceiling. Nyma ordered the unlimited soup and salad, and Lance followed suit. He was determined to copy her bites to the letter in order to avoid slipping. Maybe he could pick out the beans from his soup-extra carbs weren’t going to do him any favors. 

 

“Take it you’re not a fan either?” 

 

“No.” She took a long sip of her maroon-colored drink. “Just, like,  _ yesterday _ the little fucker just…like, I don’t even like, know where to begin. Do you know what I mean? He approached me, and just, like, I don’t even know. Such a, like, fucking jerk.” 

 

Something about Nyma’s usage of  _ like  _ reminded Lance of intermittent hiccups. 

“What happened? He wasn’t...being mean or perverted, was he?” 

 

“You know what? Like, listen to me, don’t listen to like, a  _ word  _ Keith says. He’s like, a fucking liar and manwhore. And like, if you ask me, he’s like, every bit as crazy as his dad. Do you know what I mean?” 

 

This conversation was an auspicious start, though it wasn’t as if Lance didn’t have an inkling of what it was like to have a parent everyone would consider non compos. His mama sometimes cracked frightening jokes about bombing Planned Parenthood that were maybe just a tad too wistful, as if she were ogling a luxury vehicle or imagining  moving to Tuscany.

 

It occurred to Lance that he hadn’t actually ever seen Keith’s father more than once or twice. He thought he remembered Keith hand-in-hand with a tall, dark-haired man with a broad chin and a small scar on the side of his face at a few after-performance receptions in kindergarten. Lance was unclear as to whether or not the man still attended Keith’s performances, because Keith hadn’t showed up at a parent-performer reception for years. 

 

“Does...his dad have issues?” It didn’t seem nice to ask, but considering fucking Keith Kogane had potentially life-destroying information on Lance, a bit of blackmail material would be useful leverage. Besides, it wasn’t as if he weren’t genuinely interested. 

 

“Well, like, I’m not sure where, like, his mom is, but like, she’s out of the picture. As for, like, his dad…” Nyma sniffed, but looked amused. “Like, let’s just say that like, even backward screwballs around here would like, be  _ terrified _ of being that deranged.” Deranged. That wasn’t a word you tossed around lightly. “They’d, like, be glad no one like, lets him out. I’d like, just rather be dead then-”

 

Suddenly Nyma was on her feet, sangria tipping and slopping all over the tablecloth. Eyes dilated like a stricken doe’s she stared over at the previously-unoccupied tables beside them. Lance nearly cricked his neck craning his head to look too; a waitress had led over a large group of austere-looking men muttering gruffly amongst themselves to be seated. 

 

A man in an aviator’s cap sitting at the head of the table was laughing. He had a rough and weathered look to him, something slightly belied by his lazy, derisive smile. It was impossible to tell his age; he seemed fairly young, but his hair was starkly white. He had an arm around a pretty red-haired girl, the sole woman in their party. She was indolently resting her cheek on her companion’s shoulders. Nyma did not even appear to breathe, although the sheer loathing in her face could’ve sent the devil scattering for cover. 

 

“Nyma?” Lance asked worriedly, half-rising. “Do you know those people?” 

 

Nyma pivoted on her heel back towards him. “So, Lance!” She squealed, seizing his hands. “You’re like, going to New York on a full scholarship like, for dance?” Now some people were looking in their direction. “That’s  _ so _ amazing!” 

 

“Well, uh, I haven’t wo-” 

 

“ _ And _ you’ll be starring at the, like  _ Bolshoi  _ soon in Moscow!” She dragged him into a hug and Lance fumbled to reciprocate, the smell of shampoo filling his senses. “I  _ knew _ you could do it.” 

 

He wasn’t sure where in the world he’d dropped out of the conversation and where exactly he’d returned, but while Nyma seemed to have selective memory, he smiled shakily. For the briefest of moments Lance was transported to the moment where Shiro had their hands on both his and Nyma’s shoulders, proudly announcing the season’s lead roles as the room thundered with applause…

 

“So, like, tell me more about your, like, workout routine.” Nyma asked perfervidly as she drew away, eyelashes batting. “Your  _ daily _ workout routine,” she corrected herself, hands twisting around his again. Lance just looked mutely back at her, because a leading ballerina princess perched on one leg was looking at him adoringly...

 

“Rolo, man, sit down,” hissed a voice Lance thought he heard from a hundred miles over. “Just leave it, just-goddamn, don’t-”

 

But then Nyma seized him by the scruff of his shirt, and pulled him into a crushing kiss. Lance grunted, his hands flying up helplessly. But a second later his eyelids fell shut, and he failed to notice the balls of Nyma’s eyes were fixated on table thirteen-

 

WHAM. 

 

Lance’s cheek went senseless for a split second before the agony registered, graze throbbing like innumerable red ant bites. He went sprawling to the ground, accidentally dragging the tablecloth and their plates to the ground. He looked up in astonishment to see the man in the aviator cap standing over him, fist raised, near-purple with wrath. 

 

Growling, the stranger made to swing his fist back and Lance cowered. Nyma grabbed the attacker’s arm. “ROLO! Rolo, stop!” 

 

Nyma shouted something else that was quickly lost as a wailing chorus exploded like a bomb-

 

**_Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnggggg!_ **

 

The metallic chirp of a fire alarm crashed into a deafening explosion. It 

jackhammered its way into Lance’s skull, filling ear canal-veins with liquid fire. He rolled over and staggered to his feet, clutching reddening ears. 

 

Then the ceiling sprinklers burst and there were squeals and bellows now decipherable over the fire alarm cacophony as people stampeded out. Nyma let out an anguished sob as she fumbled for her Kate Spade bag. “No, no, no! My  _ purse-!” _

 

The man named Rolo grasped her arm and began dragging her away. Nyma hissed and clawed at the older man’s grasp, still pawing at the air for her grey purse. “Let go!” 

 

“You want to burn to death?” Rolo snapped, waving a hand toward the frenzied patrons smacking themselves against the emergency exit door handles. _ “C’mon!”  _

 

Nyma hesitated, bloodless face quite scared. hen she and Rolo bolted for the exit. Panic upswelling with the pain of his swollen face Lance dashed after them. “Nyma!”

 

He tripped over his own feet and wound up sprawling to the ground on his stomach, the wind effectively knocked out of him. To Lance’s great dismay he spotted a chubby young boy lying panting on the ground a few feet away. Each attempt to rise to his feet was unsuccessful as people knocked him over in their mad dash. The child threw his hands over his head and ducked, clearly just trying to avoid getting trampled. 

 

Lance lurched over to help the boy stand on violently-wobbling legs and lugged him along, the boy stumbling from behind. At last they hurtled through the Exit doors and into the cool night air. Sirens were still playing, growing closer and closer and Lance took several steps back from the restaurant, retching in the soaked crowd buzzing like an over. A curvy lady frantically shuffled over and grabbed the boy in a bearhug, murmuring into his wet hair. Lance looked away, frantically zigzagging around the sea of people for Nyma. The fact that fire engines were now rolling into the parking lot was some comfort, even if its sirens and horn blasts would resonate in Lance’s skull for hours to come. Nyma was now literally in the hands of a psycho lunatic and could very well be stolen away at any moment through the chaos. 

 

He caught a glimmer of red and turned around, glimpsing the red-haired woman whom minutes ago had been draped over Rolo’s shoulders. Now her hair had been reduced to frizzy tufts, and she was boredly observing the new spectacle in front of her: Nyma and Rolo were nose-to-nose, shrieking at each other. Lance wished he’d brought his silverware along for a weapon. “Nyma!” 

 

Lance tried pushing through the men curtaining the two off from the rest of the mob and was curtailed for his trouble with a big shove back; Lance recognized the rumpled-man from Rolo’s table. He hopped wildly, certain at any moment Rolo was going to smash her face in too. He’d kill him, if he hurt her. 

 

“-hitting him like some  _ fucking _ psycho, what the  _ fresh hell _ is wrong with you?! Like, do you realize if anyone like from St. Vitus saw you-”

 

“Oh, fuck off, you  _ enjoyed _ it. That grip on my arm? That was a fucking weak-ass hold,” said Rolo, spitting on the ground. “You didn’t want me to stop. And I have a pretty good memory how hard you can land a blow, or how tight your grip is.” Nyma turned redder than the fire engines. “You could’ve hurt me bad, and you didn’t, because you wanted me to get pissed just like your prep boytoys at St. Vitus. Nothing makes you wetter than the idea of guys duking it out over you.” 

 

“I knew I like, didn’t have to smack you to get you to like, stop.” Surprise flitted over Rolo’s face and Nyma hurriedly went on, “Maybe I didn’t like, want to hurt you the way you hurt me. You know what I mean? Actually, like, you probably don’t, because like, you don’t give a shit. Flaunting your posts about like, your fucking bitch when you  _ knew _ I’d find out-” 

 

“You wanna talk  _ hurt _ ? How about you showing up here tonight just so you could wave that faggot ballerina in front of my face? You just so  _ happened _ to be here at the exact time and place I Facebook invited my friends tonight?”

 

Lance couldn’t breathe. The spots loomed in and out of his vision. His grip slackened against the men he’d been pushing against, and they gave him a shove that nearly sent him on his back again. A balding man gave Lance a warning glare, although he parted slightly. 

 

Nyma just looked pissed. “-you think, like, you have any business telling me like,  _ what _ to do when you fucking said I could like, fucking fuck anyone, even myself, and you wouldn’t even like care anymore?”

 

“Don’t you know when I’m fucking bullshitting you by now? If I didn’t care I woulda left you up in flames!” 

 

“You should’ve.” Nyma’s makeup ran as she turned away, mascara tears streaking her cheeks. “You should’ve just let me burn because I’ve been in hell anyway, because you can’t be fucking honest, like, you don’t know how to, and that was all I ever asked you for!” She let out a bitter cry and gulping laugh. “You were the only person who ever fucking  _ saw  _ me instead of just looked at me, and you can’t even-you-why can’t you  _ just-” _

 

Rolo took her shoulders and kissed her. Nyma’s watery, pink eyes shot open and she feebly tried pushing Rolo away, manicured nails wildly raking his shoulders. 

 

But it seemed her willpower almost immediately shot up a white flag, because seconds later eyes closed and she yanked Rolo closer, nails curling into his shirt. The two stood there, interlocked in each other’s arms. 

 

Lance looked on a bit longer-a masochistic streak- slowly walked away. It seemed the only thing left in the world to be grateful for was the fact that his grazed cheek hurt so much he couldn’t even cry. 

 

And that was the last Lance would ever see of Nyma and Rolo before their fates were sealed and by extension, his own. In a hospital with an artificial chill, reeking of iodoform, rotting flowers, steamed vegetables, and burnt coffee. With a sweaty, unfamiliar weight in Lance’s hands-clasped behind his back in his obedient march-and his fear and love set free in a dimmed room. 

 

That’s a little later on, though. 

 

Lance slowly walked through the dispersing throng in the park lot, allowing a comfortable daydream-fanfiction he’d never write to play through his head. 

“What in the hell  _ happened _ ?” A waitress yelped, huddling in a flock of soggy birds in green and white uniforms. “Did a fryer catch on fire?”

 

Momentarily distracted Lance came to a stop to listen. “It wasn’t in the kitchens,” promised a man, white chef clothes plastered against his skin. “Honest to God, none of us saw or even  _ smelled _ smoke. I would’ve gone for the extinguisher if I had!” 

 

“Then where else is there gonna be fire?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s an old building, and maybe the electric wiring just fried. But I didn’t notice anything on the main floor.”

 

Firefighters were still hurrying into the deserted building, hoses in tow. Lance could only assume it’d been a small fire, because he didn’t see any smoke either. He shivered, and had just turned to go as a firefighter and a man dressed in a black suit joined the cue of waiters. Both of them looked extremely angry. 

 

“Well, what was it?” Asked Lance’s waiter anxiously. “Did you figure out what happened?” 

 

The man in the suit snorted, although his set face was near-purple with anger. The firefighter seemed a bit more composed, although his disgust was so palpable the restaurant staff quickly made way for him. “Well, folks, if you must know,  _ nothing  _ happened.” 

 

A waitress dropped the empty tray she’d unknowingly carried out from the building. 

“What do you mean? Were the...sprinklers just defective?” 

 

A muscle twitched in the manager’s jaw. “No. They were working  _ perfectly _ . That was the problem.” 

 

“Because there never was any fire to begin with,” explained the chief blandly, pulling out a walkie from his inside coat and barking into it: “Reporting codes 594 and 1245, I repeat, 594 and 1245 at scene.”

 

A voice crackled back,  _ “Over.”  _

 

“-wha-are you sure the sprinklers didn’t just put whatever it was out?” asked a bedraggled young girl Lance recognized from school. 

“No evidence, ma’am, though we’ve been up and down the property. Although we might’ve saved ourselves the trouble, considering we have a witness.” 

 

The chief jerked his thumb back, and a haggard-looking redheaded man in a bowtie slowly made his way over, wringing his sopping apron. “Scott? What happened?”

 

“I saw it,” he muttered, slowly dragging a hand down his face. “That little  _ psycho. _ At least, I saw a bit of him. Damn fucking hood.” 

 

The gangly girl turned to the chief. “What do the codes mean? The ones you just said?” 

 

“Knowing destruction of property and false reporting of an incident,” said the firefighter, nodding as Scott piped in, “Some little fucking nutjob in a red hoodie darted into the bar. “I’m guessin’ by his build that it was a guy. I caught some dark hair, but that was about it--probably no one noticed him because it was our busy night. Hell,  _ I _ didn’t notice until I saw him jump on a barstool outta the corner of my eye. Thought he was stark raving drunk. I dunno. He  _ might’ve _ been, considering.”

 

“Doesn’t exactly excuse the fact he just committed a class A felony,” muttered the manager, whom seemed to be addressing his shoes. “And cost this restaurant thousands of dollars in repairs!” 

 

“Not to mention this stunt just cause the fire apartment $600 bucks,” griped the firefighter. “It ain’t cheap to mobilize us.” 

 

“But what did the perp  _ do, _ on the stool?” 

 

“The suspect lit a lighter directly underneath a sprinkler, which set it off and triggered a chain reaction.” A hushed cue of gasps. The firefighter groaned. “And then Mr. Scott Ragsdale confirmed the suspect fled the scene as everyone evacuated the building.” 

 

“Little bastard ran like hell was after his heels. Which it probably  _ is _ , considering what he was riskin’ for shits and giggles. From all the screamin’ goin’ on in the place, ya would’ve thought everyone was in a gas chamber.” He watched as a police cruiser rolled into the parking lot, quickly accompanied by another. “Damn, but I hope I can remember enough to help ID this guy. Chances are promising he’s gotta whole list of misdemeanors under his belt. D’you think reporters are gonna wanna talk to me or somethin? I want dry clothes if they do.” 

 

“The authorities are coming shortly. This is above my jurisdiction. And  _ my _ paygrade,” pointed out the firefighter, adjusting his heavy coat. “Considerin’ I have to put up with this shit…”

 

“The restaurant don’t have a surveillance camera, but there _ are _ some on the streetlamps in the parking lot,” said the manager wearily, pointing. “Maybe they caught a glimpse of this weirdo’s face, or the car he probably shot off in.”

 

“With any luck, you’ll find it in a ravine.” said the firefighter. Lance left to find Blue without much further ado, so tired he could scarcely walk in a straight line and glanced off a minivan and jeep. Likely looked drunk.

 

When at last he slipped inside Blue's comforting interior he jumped and hit his head on the car ceiling at the shadowy outline of something sitting on the hood. Lance switched on his lights, and saw a little pot with red blossoms.

 

Puzzled-after all, he wasn't in the habit of finding flowers resting on his car-he gingerly slipped outside again to take a closer look. The quad-petaled clusters waved in the light breeze, and Lance instinctively cupped a hand around them. What had happened to Abuela's marigolds? Soaked, Lance wearily supposed, pressing a fingertip into the cool earth. They in all likelihood lay forgotten on the floor, pulverized underneath the weight of so many trampling feet. 

There was a small nursery tag in the perlite-speckled soil, and Lance tugged it free to read, _Scarlet Geranium_. He uncertainly looked around. Someone possibly had found this pot in the parking lot and stuck atop the car closest to it. But it seemed as if they were meant for him. 

Opting not to question, and far too exhausted to care, Lance briefly brushed his face against the plant. The touch of something soft and alive. At the very least, it might fill the hole the marigolds had left behind in Abuela's garden 

 

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

Lance glanced at his dashboard clock as he pulled into the drive. The glowing green digits were set a hour behind because he'd never bothered to reset it following Daylight Savings, but it was well-past his curfew now. With some trepidation he pulled out his phone and scrolled to check for new messages. None. He went to Facebook. The one notification on there was that Hunk and Pidge had taken a goofy selfie outside Marble Slab, miming playing tug-of-war over a Gotta Have It-sized waffle bowl. The struggle might not have been all fake-out on Hunk's part.

 

Lance wondered if it wasn't a bit selfish to be wistful over the fact that having a best friend didn't necessarily mean you were  _ theirs _ .

He entered the house and found it dark, empty and quiet. He breathed in stillness in and let it spore inside as Lance turned on the light, dumbly gazing around as if he expected to see something else entirely than a home virtually unchanged for over fifteen years.

 

Even if its inhabitants (or lack thereof) weren't.

 

He placed the flowers on the table and then went to the cupboard to pull out a can of Spaghettios, turning it over in his hand.  Spaghettios were a lovely comfort food, although they were so salty they tasted a bit like blood. It wasn't as if he couldn't _use_ them, considering how little he'd actually eaten today.

 

He gently put the can back and made his way for the closed door at the neglected end of the house. His fist automatically rose to knock, lowered again.

 

Mama shut this door a few weeks after the police came to their home holding Marco’s bag. Lance angrily threw the door open Mama kept closing a week before on this one issue he contested defeat. This open door was an open, gaping wound. It just hurt too much to see the unmade bed with no occupant, all its untouched contents quietly expectant and questioning.

 

Lance's fingers played over the knob. It was a true testament to what a terror this room had become to the McClains that no one bothered to clean it. Not even Abuela.

He turned the knob and it was bolted, the day it was when Marco screamed at Lance through the door to run for papa's gun because they were all about to be butchered by their new tenant in the chimney. It must’ve moved since, and Mama probably locked the door in hopes of keeping whatever it was Marco had seen in the fireplace from getting out. 

 

Lance went to the tool drawer and fetched a Philip's head screwdriver. The rusty lock rattled and slid free. Lance still had to shove his way in; the door wasn't fast.

 

When he flicked on the light the smell of mothballs rushed into his senses, along with the muted scents of boy, salt and dove soap. The faded wallpaper was still as juvenile as ever-Lance smiled to see the retro red and yellow Mickey Mouse print that had been rolled on for a little child many years ago. 

 

The wallpaper had embarrassed the hell out of Marco as he grew older, so he plastered much of this tiny room's walls with posters of soccer players, mainly girls from Germany’s national team. That had annoyed Louie to no end.

 

"Carajo,  _ Cuba is home. That's your team." _

_ "That's your team, dad. I like good really teams _ ."

 

Lance's eyes unwillingly traveled to the yellowing poster of  _ The Nutcracker _ performance several years ago. Lance's eyes burnt warningly and he blinked the tears away with the dust.

 

There were still hair gel products on the desk, still a few dog-eared fantasy books, the Twilight books Marco insisted were a stupid fad after he read the four books in a week, a bible, a photo of him at his first communion, a jar full of miscellaneous markers, some seashells in a bottle of sand from their family vacation to Cuba, a few soccer trophies and player bobbleheads. There was also a badly-made Popsicle-stick ornament painted in red and green that had first-grader Lance's school picture in the middle, gap-tooth grin enormous.

 

Blue the Lion was still sitting on the unmade bed, ear tattered, mane as messy as a troll doll's hair, blue skin dirty and whiskers drooping. Lance took Blue in his arms and buried his face against the toy, which smelled musty and yet still the same.

 

Lance looked at the floor, where broken glass still glittered like a threat. Then, he turned to Marco's closet, which was still so cluttered with wrinkled clothes the door lay open in a lazy yawn. He gingerly pulled through the clothing and unearthed a large red shoe, locating the other underneath the bed. They weren't entirely-new and were sporting a few scars from one of Marco's last home games.

He sank on the rustily creaking in-protest bed. He pulled off his sneakers and socks, wincing at the sight of his feet. However dainty a ballet dancer's feet appeared in satin, the wear and tear of many-years practice battered Lance's feet into bony, flesh purpled stumps. Marco’s feet were also frequently blistered from soccer practice, and he used a home remedy to ameliorate the problem. 

_ "I can't believe you actually _ do  _ that," Lance exclaimed incredulously as _ Abuela  _ set down the enormous bowl of mashed avocado, which by now looked like regurgitated guacamole. "Isn't that _ gross?"

_ "Not really," Marco said lazily as he pecked Abuela on the cheek in thanks, taking a handful of the glop before bending to liberally rub the slime against his feet. "People put avocados in soaps and creams and shampoos all the time." _

 

_ "...no, they don't." _

 

_ "Sure they do. Companies just charge nineteen dollars for putting in an avocado in lotion at the drugstore, is all. It's cheaper to do it yourself." _

 

_ "Is very good for skin," _ Abuela  _ noted, taking some of the paste in her own dry palms. "Like aloe vera. Keeps skin soft." _

 

_ "You ought to try it," Marco advised, seizing Lance's bare foot in his gooey hand without warning. The boy yelped and writhed in his older brother's hold, squealing with horror and laughing uncontrollably as Marco gleefully smeared the grease and down his foot. "See, that feels good, doesn't it?" _

 

_ "You're tickling me!" _

 

_ "Better that then letting your feet get torn open," said Marco with unexpected severity, and Lance stopped wriggling to give him a startled look. The older boy frowned as he took more of the salve in his hands, bending to rub it into Lance's other foot. "Dancers are like soccer players, Lance. I don't care what papa says. You're on your feet all the time, and after awhile all that activity can be just as bad for you as smoking _ ."

 

_ "Nuh. That's not gonna happen." _

 

_ "It could. That's why you gotta take care of yourself now." He shot Lance his most winning, crooked smile with crooked teeth. "But until you learn to do that, I'll just do it for you."  _

 

 _Lance responded in kind by taking a handful of avocado and smearing it in Marco's face_. _Marco counterattacked, and Abuela joined in the fun at once._ _And then Papa came in and yelped as three green-faced monsters turned to look at him._

 

"I'm sorry," Lance said to no one in particular, wrestling misshapen feet into the red shoes. A run. He suddenly wanted very much to go on a run, though at the moment he was so weary he could scarcely move. He pulled Marco's mildewy blankets over himself and took Blue in his arms, not even bothering to unlace the red shoes.

Tomorrow he'd go running like a bat out of hell. Now, he'd gladly tip forward into the static foaming around the corners of his eyes, and dissolve.

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

_ Twenty-eight hours behind Present Time _

 

“Oh my God, Keith.” Nyma placed a hand against her chest, smoke dribbling from her lips. “You like, gave me a fucking heart attack.”

 

Keith busied himself with the iphone he’d drawn out seconds earlier, holding it aloft. “I heard you’re going out with Lance. Any reason why?” 

 

Nyma frowned. “Well, what reason do you need to go out with someone?” 

 

Suddenly she brightened and crossed the breach between them, puffing on her Lucky Strike. “You don’t look very happy,” she cooed, cocking her head and lowering her eyes. “Why? Would you rather I go out with...someone else?” 

 

Keith’s taciturnity remained unbroken. Nyma blinked, masking a brief scowl. That clearly hadn’t been the response she’d expected. “If you have anything you want to ask me, go ahead,” she added eagerly. “My Daddy isn’t going to be here for a few minutes. And we’re all alone, you know.” 

 

“I want you to cancel.” said Keith bluntly, still seemingly fascinated with his phone, which remained held away from his face as if he were far-sighted. “And to stay away from Lance.” 

 

Clearly wounded, Nyma let out a sharp gasp. “ _ Excuse _ you? But where the  _ fuck _ do you get off telling me what to do?

 

“I mean,” She hastily corrected herself, hopefully gazing into Keith’s mutinous demeanor. “If not Lance, who am I gonna go out with?” she asked sadly, eyes widening through the veil of cigarette smoke. “Is there someone else I should be paying attention to?” 

 

The leaves skittered outside, their sharp dry points skittering noisily across the pavement as the wind rattled the windows. “I’ll be lonely.” Nyma added, stepping in so closely the two were nearly nose-to-nose. She traced Keith’s arm tantalizingly, greedily drinking him in. “I’ve been lonely for such a long time. It’s getting unbearable, tbh.” 

 

“Then be lonely. But stay away from Lance.” 

 

This was clearly Nyma’s stuff of nightmares. Cinderella’s coruscated pumpkin slowly rotted like a jack o’lantern in the cold. “So let me get this straight,” said Nyma flatly, blowing a whiff of cigarette smoke directly in Keith’s face.

 

“You spend ten years fucking with Lance, and  _ I’m _ suddenly a bitch for wanting to get dinner with him. I get you two have been in engaged in a who has the bigger dick Cold War since you slipped out of diapers, but you don’t need to use me just to hurt him. It’s pathetic.” 

 

“Use you,” Keith echoed. He was trembling and white in the ill-lit hall. “You want to talk about  _ using _ ?” 

 

“I don’t know what you’re-” 

 

“It’s no secret you’ve been seeing an older guy.” Nyma’s bag fell. “ _ And _ that he tossed you into Piranha Bay. He fucked you up pretty badly, huh?” 

 

“Oh, someone’s been a naughty cunt and has been listening to gossip,” Nyma sniveled, stomping away toward a company trophy case opposite Keith. “Look, I’m not dating anyone at the moment. I’m not a cheat.” 

 

“But you are someone interested in revenge, you terrorist. Seriously, you should realize that the school  _ chapel  _ isn’t exactly the best place to hold confidential conversations. Someone attempting to get a little sleep might overhear you.” 

 

Nyma snickered. “Fuck. You. You can’t prove anything.”

 

“Watch me, you disease in a tutu.” Nyma just made a face and loftily turned away, nose in the air. “I mean it, Nyma. Don’t talk to him. Don’t even look at him.” 

 

“Why are you acting like this?” She demanded incredulously, turning around and tucking her arms behind her back. “You don’t have to slut shame me, you pig. All you had to do was ask nicely and I might’ve gone out with you. But I don’t need yours and Ezor’s pigshit, you ass-raping son of a whore.” 

 

“I’m not  _ asking _ you for a date!” Keith bellowed, voice echoing like a glass waterfall. “I’m telling you to not take advantage of him! What we have between us in class is our fucking business. You don’t get to touch that! And at least I never went after his personal life! But you don’t give the smallest shit about Lance, and you don’t get to touch him! Never, ever,  _ ever _ !”

 

He encroched on Nyma with all the fervor of a starving cannibal. Nyma for her credit held her ground where grown men might’ve fled.

 

“So back the hell off, you stupid girl. This is your first and last warning. Count yourself lucky, because that’s one more than I usually give.”

 

“Or what?” She asked primly, swaying back and forth. Keith bore down on her, and she stiffened, hand fumbling in a pocket for a keychain that remained with the mechanic.

 

“ _ Or, I’ll destroy your life and everything you love _ .” Keith struck the trophy case, making the entire thing jounce warningly. “If you think I’m going to stop at sabotaging your date, then you have another thing coming.”

 

“First of all Keith: If that case comes down on you I’ll let it break your back. And second, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with using someone who’s all but begging to be used. As for you, you’re a bully.”

 

_ “I’m-?!  _ You and your friends drove that poor freshman girl to throw herself in front of a car.” 

 

“Mm, I guess it’s my fault for not stopping her from raiding the vending machine and chasing down Girl Scouts.” She sauntered, taking another draft of her flaking secret with a happy hum. “I was trying to give Butterball tough love for her own health. But if she decided to do the world a favor, who am I to disagree? But never mind that-I never threatened anyone. You think Shiro’s going to let you stay here if you effing  _ hit _ me?”

 

“I never said I was going to resort to violence.” And then Keith laughed, a long, baleful His unblinking eyes seemed to have been stitched open. “That being said, you can’t touch Lance.”

 

“Christ, you’re fucking pathetic. And before you think you can get away with judging me, why don’t you go and ask your daddy to teach you some manners?”

 

Keith had nothing to say to that. Nyma tittered, positively glowing in triumph. A second later her mouth fell open.  _ “Deeeeeeeeh,” _ she moaned monotonously, eyelids drooping sleepily. “Pretty spot-on impression of him, huh? Aw, does that hurt your feelings? I didn’t know those were something you did, tough guy. Considering you have all the personality of sour milk.” 

 

Nyma looked out the window, rolling her eyes impatiently. “Look, my dad’s a plastic surgeon.” She rounded on Keith, dropping her cigarette butt on the tiles and grinding it out. “He recognized you from stage. And he sees you visiting all. The. Fucking. Time. I doubt you’ll understand because you’re a socially-maladaptive talking fuckhole, but I don’t think any son of a fucking vegetable has any right to call me out for anything. So why not do everyone a favor and join Busty McFatty Bigbooks until a truck comes along? You try this again, Keith, and I’ll tell everyone you’re a maniac.” 

 

“If you go out with Lance tomorrow. I will cut out your heart.” 

 

“Of course you will,” Nyma declaimed sarcastically, as if addressing a toddler bent on becoming a superhero. A horn honked and she looked outside again, clearly pleased as a van slowly rolled up outside the door. “That’d be Daddy. So  _ nice _ having this chat with you.” 

 

She opened the door but hesitated a bit. “Just so you know, if you decide to talk shop about me with Lance, he’s never going to believe you because he doesn’t want to.” She crackled and flared with sadistic glee. “And if I tell Shiro that you were nasty to me and that I don’t feel safe around you, your ass is going to get expelled, child prodigy or not. Ta!” 

 

And with that, she strutted away. Keith watched her go, and drew his phone closer, tapping the stop button. As thunder boomed outside, he hit the play button on his newest video. 

 

Well,  _ that’d _ been much easier than anticipated. How grand it must be, to be an imbecile.

 

As Keith replayed Nyma’s departure-her tiny, shriller words would give him a headache-he watched the smoke writhing in the air like serpents.

 

It hadn’t seemed to have occurred to Nyma that Keith could’ve been filming, or that she had been caught smoking in the studio on footage. This despite the fact that she was seventeen and Maine was one of several states that moved the legal smoking age to twenty-one in the last year. Keith listened to his own voice re-play, and paused the video. 

 

Well, he could very well share this clip with Lance. But the idea made Keith profoundly uncomfortable; even if the evidence that Nyma was a heartless skank was irrefutable, Lance might very well stalk off with his fingers in his ears. He definitely wouldn’t want to take Keith’s word for anything, or at the least would assume Keith was out to saw his heart in half, possibly literally as well as metaphorically...

 

No, he’d go to Shiro. For so many reasons. 

 

Keith muted the video, thinking carefully. Shiro had what he called “role-model standards” for his students’ conduct in the studio. And for the most part everyone obliged; getting into Shiro’s program was a herculean task for even the best dancers, and it wasn’t a privilege you threw away lightly. Keith looked at the dirty cigarette pink with Nyma’s lipstick. Shiro and Coran would both be aghast that Nyma actually broke the law and take immediate disciplinary action.

 

Keith could have Nyma expelled as early as tonight. With any luck she’d be too busy doubled up in misery over the next few days to try ruining Keith’s life. 

 

He turned his phone over in his hands. How to give the incriminating footage to Shiro presented some complications; if Keith shared it directly Shiro would probably thank him for bringing the incident to his attention, but would probably be disappointed in Keith for committing what probably looked like self-interested social sabotage. It could hurt his chances at playing Silvio. 

 

And he couldn’t stop at telling Shiro. No. Keith didn’t believe in revenge, but both karma and Newton’s Law- _ what goes up, must come down _ -would find a willing conduit in him. 

He headed out,, hair flapping wildly over his eyes. There was some merit in the idea of posting the video on the troupe’s Facebook page and allowing the class to glimpse firsthand Nyma at her best. No. That wouldn’t do either. But that was okay. Because when Keith was done, all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, would  _ never, ever be able to put Nyma together agai _ n. 

 

He swung into his red car. Only one solution. Keith thought beforehand when he’d contemplated reaching out to Beezer that he might feel bad for destroying Nyma’s life. Now Keith thought he might not. 

 

He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and dialed the number scrawled on it. After a brief ring a cheery voice chimed,  _ “Thank you for calling Wildflour Bakery! How can I assist you today?” _

 

Um. Keith checked the paper again. He far from cared what others thought of him, but he was also aware of how idiotic he sounded. “I’d like to order two books. One of them is about a...lamb named Delilah, and the other is...uh...a book about spider lilies.” 

 

The clerk didn’t answer, but Keith heard the line ring again, once, twice, three times before someone picked up. “Yes?” asked a man gruffly, dry and rough as sandpaper. “What is it?” 

 

“...I’d like to arrange a meeting tomorrow afternoon. There’s a tape I’d like to purchase.” 

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

_ Present Time  _

 

"That. _ Bitch." _

The following afternoon found Lance squeezed between Allura and Hunk on bar stools, a Venti cup of Starbucks coffee steaming in front of him. Allura had insisted on buying and Lance had not protested too much. He added somewhere around seven or eight packets of calorie-free sweetener and a small rush of milk at the bar (indeterminate number of calories, but he'd jog it off.)

 

Allura's beautiful chocolate face was creased in a sharp frown. Hunk seemed torn between annoyance and what looked suspiciously like vindication. Pidge kicked her dangling legs back and forth in the air, fingers twitching as if she longed to wring someone's neck.

 

"I knew Nyma was a trick-ass ho-" Lance snorted right before he took a swig of coffee and wound up spraying his front. It was so funny to hear Allura lay down a stream of insults in her elegant accent and admittedly often archaic-speech. "-but dear God, to  _ involve _ you in her spat with that bastard is just  _ disgusting." _ Lance pondered that what had cut him so deeply last wasn't so bad when you had the novel satisfaction of having people pissed off on your behalf. Certainly that never happened with his family save for Abuela. Thankfully she hadn't arrived back home yet, hadn't noticed the ugly bruise on Lance's cheek he'd insisted to his friends for what felt like a hour that he'd received it after falling up the stairs.

 

"Yeah, I would unplug that girl's life support to charge my phone," avowed Pidge and Lance snorted again, this time lowering his cup in time. "God, Lance, I'm so sorry."

 

She still seemed frankly murderous. After Lance replayed yesterday's fiasco Pidge called Nyma a fucktwit slutpig, then the fine crust of a yeast infection, then someone whose uterus was an entry into Narnia, someone whose uterus was actually the entry of the tenth circle of Dante's inferno, a humanoid STD, the leading-cause of pustule-related deaths, and finally she'd called Nyma a Republican.

 

"Allow your minstrel to sing a melody to soothe your troubled breast," offered Pidge, strumming an imaginary guitar. "This one's for you, Nyma."

 

"Oh my God, please not here," Allura begged, clasping her hands in prayer. "Please, not  _ that  _ song,  _ here _ -"

 

But if Allura meant to apply to Pidge's sense of decorum she was sorely disappointed: Pidge lifted her head and sang, _ "Please end your fucking life, please end your fucking life, I really got emphasize, no one cares if you're alive. You're a fucking penis-hole, grab a dick and eat it all-" _

 

"I knew that girl was trouble when she walked in," Hunk muttered to himself again, taking a long draft of his hot chocolate. He looked grim, although the effect was somewhat ruined by his chocolate mustache.

 

"So shame on me," said Lance, and was relieved when Hunk reluctantly laughed. He was still nervously peering at Lance's swollen jaw. People turned their heads as Pidge merrily sang: 

 

_ "I hope you fucking die in a high-speed car crash, I hope you fucking fall head-first and get your neck cracked, I hope you have some beautiful children that die from cancer-" _

 

"Pidge, stoppit," Hunk muttered, stirring his coffee with a bit more vigor than necessary. "Seriously though, I wonder if who pulled the fire alarm didn't actually do you a solid."

 

"Didn't do my nice shirt a solid, considering I got drenched," Lance complained, leg bouncing furiously. Maybe he was burning off some of the milk in his coffee at least. "It was just a madhouse-I mean, this poor kid almost got stampeded on and everything. It was fucking crazy."

 

"Do you think Nyma planned that too?" Allura asked anxiously, and Lance squirmed on his stool, wondering miserably if it were possible for his IQ count to below sea level. "Maybe she recruited someone to pull the fire alarm so that Rolo could come and be the buff guy when he was already jealous."

 

"...please tell me she's not that diabolical." Lance asked his cup, wishing Starbucks would spike his drink with shots of vodka. It would be an improvement.

 

"Honestly? She's a ballerina, so I wouldn't be surprised," said Pidge, whom at last stopped singing. "She's a manipulative little skank; she's led a lot of guys on leashes at school without officially dating anyone so that they'd buy her shit. I should probably kill her," she mused thoughtfully, setting her cheek in hand. Lance let out a nervous laugh.

 

"I don't think she planned the waterworks at least; she was freaking big time out about her clothes and her bag."

 

"Still, I'm happy to kill her if you ask."

 

Hunk gave Pidge a reproving elbow jab. "Pidge. Remember that talk we had regarding complimentary stabbing?"

 

"Not a fan?"

 

"Not a fan." said Hunk firmly, crossing his arms, lip slipping out in a pout. "If you keep threatening to stab each and every person who crosses you, I won't take you out for ice cream the next time you come to my house."

 

"Yeah you will."

 

"....yeah, I probably will."

 

"Look, I'll just rename the stabbing and call it a free hug. How's that?"

 

"Sans the actual stabbing?" Allura asked with a beady eye.

 

"You wish," said Pidge, downing her Venti frappucino.

 

Lance guffawed. Hunk took Lance's hand and pointedly wrapped Lancer's fingers around a cake pop stick. "C'mon, a spoonful of sugar helps what probably tastes like vomit go down."

 

As much as he liked having Hunk's warm hand on his own, Lance eyed the cake pop as if it were a uncorked grenade. "Uh, pretty sure there's more than a spoonful of sugar in here."

 

"Repeat after me, Lance:  _ Thanks Hunk, for the treat. I'll proceed to eat it."  _  Pidge dictated, although she was hungrily eying the dessert.

 

"I effing love cake pops, but I'm gonna wanna save it for my lunch dessert today. I forgot to mention that I already told Abuela what happened last night. She honest-to-God baked a batch of chocolate chip muffins last night then and there. And I had like, three for breakfast this morning. I'm going to effing  _ die _ !" He wailed, slapping his hands over his eyes. "You know the white powder Abuela puts in her desserts? Probably something she smuggled over the border."

 

"Your grandmother is simply  _ amazing, _ " sighed Allura enviously. "Remember that time I was over and I told her about the chocolate peppermint cake my mother used to make?"

 

"Abuela went ahead and made one later that night," Hunk reminisced, not without a small amount of longing as he'd dug into his cheese danish. "God, I finished half that thing off. She always makes people so _ welcome _ ."

 

"Yeah, I always walked through Lance's door ready to shout ' _ I'm home _ !' I swear she's fattening you up to eat you, Lance," Pidge said, digging out her phone to check the time.

 

"Probably," Lance agreed cheerfully, nuzzling the cake pop before dropping it in his lunch bag. "Soon, my precious,  _ soon _ ."

 

"Are you sure you don't wanna tell Shiro? About what happened with Nyma?" Hunk asked cautiously. Lance wasn't really listening; he knew he'd have to toss the cake pop out on his first opportunity. It was the 'just one' unsafe comfort food that would send him scurrying to Dairy Queen after practice. Without a doubt Lance would order an absurd amount of food he couldn't afford, telling an indifferent employee that he was ordering for all his friends, again...

 

"Lance? I can tell him, if you don't want to."

 

Lance's bright red shoes felt as if they'd become concrete. "I just...look, Nyma's just gonna deny everything if I go to Shiro. There's no point."

 

"You should tell him!" cried Allura incredulously, waving her own pale pink cake pop like a baton. "Even if he doesn't suspend her, he might at least give her a demerit. That's going to count against Nyma if she wants to be Angeline."

 

"What the man needs to do is scream at her. But I'll do that for him." Pidge promised, holding her right hand in the air. "And possibly slit her stomach. Make her commit harakiri."

 

"Honestly? I'm more worried about Keith. He could've forgotten by now that I'm...oh, the fresh hell am I kidding?" I...oh, don't cry, 'Lura, you didn't mean any harm." Lance took Allura's hand and squeezed it. "Seriously though, word's gonna get around the studio fast about my being bi and my Not-Date with Nyma. The ballerinas are going to laugh themselves sick at me."

 

"Oh, but they do that already," said Allura reminded him kindly, placing her free hand on Lance's shoulder. "Nothing will change. And they're already busy bickering over who's going to get the Angeline role in the locker room."

 

"Yeah, seriously, Lance? All they care about right now is about who's Shiro's favorite, and the moment someone leaves the room folks start bad-mouthing her routine," added Pidge. "It's pretty ugly. They're  _ all  _ pretty ugly, save present company."

 

"And it's not like the guys are gonna care, considering the fact that most of them dance freaking ballet and have no business being homophobes,"  Hunk concluded, tossing his empty cup in the can. "We should probably get going. Shiro's going to be pissed if we're late."

 

"Coran's going to be the one tearing out his hair. Shiro's just going to give us the  _ I'm Not Mad But So Disappointed Look _ . I'd rather he force us to drop and give him fifty," Lance remarked teasingly. Everyone groaned.

 

"I think I could live with the Disappointed Dad gaze," muttered Hunk as they pulled on their jackets. Lance traced the number 135 on the scratched counter before donning his brown bomber jacket and headed out.

 

"Hey man, do you ever think you should get a new coat? That one's kind of big on you." Hunk commented before they separated for their cars.

 

"Hell to the no. If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

 

_ "No _ part of you isn't broke," Pidge mocked. "Seriously, boy, you could use yourself a mechanic!"

 

Lance hypothesized that a mechanic might be nice, but, after all, he was broke.

  
  


~o*oOo*o~

 

Lance had never so dreaded going to practice before. He wished he had enough money for more cover-up makeup for his bruise; Keith would almost-certainly zero in on it. Lance shook, fear and rage alike bubbling madly and overflowing in him. He might have an episode then and there. But Keith would block the doorway, celebratory as a birthday child.

 

_ 'Looks like Nyma did a number on you,' Keith would purr, and even if Pidge swiped him in the gut Keith would drop to his knees and laugh, doubled up as if high on nitrous oxide. Although Keith very-rarely raised his voice he trumpeted,  _ ' **_Cock-jockey over here's beard just gave him serious wife-beating_ ** !'

 

Lance swerved just in time to avoid smashing into a Jeep with a _ Baby on Board _ sign suction-cupped to the window. A car crash was a get-out-of jail excuse even Shiro would have to swallow. If only it wouldn't mean endangering someone else.

 

But Lance did wind up pulling in to his usual spot at the academy. Hunk would call his decision based on courage, whereas Lance would call it survival instinct. Whichever drove him Lance miserably headed to the locker rooms, flanked by his friends who seemed to have made it their mission to be his bodyguards. Pidge was all smiles as she cracked her knuckles, and Lance pitied the fool who didn't know Pidge learned karate from her older brother Matt.

 

"I got you," Hunk swore as he and Lance headed in the Boys room to dress. "Let Keith try anything while I'm here. Let  _ anyone  _ try anything while I'm here."

 

But to their surprise they weren't met with a circulation of jeers when they entered. As a matter of fact, the room was completely deserted. "Hey, uh, are we late? Or early?" Hunk asked worriedly, hugging his sport bag.

 

Lance checked his phone. "Uh, no, it's almost four." He hurriedly opened his inbox to his phone. "Hey, maybe Shiro canceled practice today!" 

 

"Shiro? Not unless the four horsemen are galloping around in the classroom."

 

Lance pouted. "Aw. I don't see anything new here. And I don't have any new voicemails....this is right when everyone comes. It's not a holiday, or school would've been closed."

 

"Unless it's one of those awful, backwards holidays like Columbus Day only some people still observe. You know, I hear National Lesbian Day is actually on the same day. We should celebrate that instead. Uh...do you think we should go ahead and dress, or wait for people to come?"

 

"Let's check in with the girls and see if other people are here."

 

"They aren't," answered Pidge as she walked in. "Girl's room is empty."

 

"You are utterly shameless, you know that?" Hunk scolded, planting his hands on his hips. "Lance and I could've decided to go ahead and get naked!"

 

"First of all, the Pope is Catholic, and secondly, I wouldn't object to that. Please, if I were interrupting something, don't stop on my account."

 

Lance pulled out a slipper from his bag and threw it at Pidge, which she easily dodged.

 

"What do you think is going on?" Allura inquired when she arrived, scrolling on her iPhone. "No announcements on the Facebook page."

 

Hunk might've said something, but Lance wasn't paying attention. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before; was this a prelude to some prank the troupe agreed to play after Keith had told them the truth? If Nyma told them what had happened? Perhaps they'd simply gone on ahead to class early in hopes of fooling Lance that the deserted locker rooms meant that class had been canceled.

 

He breathed in sharply through grit teeth. Maybe Keith was here, lying in wait like a bird of prey in the classroom. Years of experience should've taught Keith that Lance and his friends always came to practice together, although he could very well be hidden away in a pitch-black classroom, hoping that Lance's friends would decide to go and Lance alone would stay to practice again.

 

Lance would turn on the lights, and he'd have a split image of Keith's hands circling his neck-

 

"Hey. Hey, man." Hunk made to touch Lance's shoulder, changed his mind. "What's wrong?"

 

Lance found himself rocking back and forth like a self-soothing infant. Hunk opened his locker and rummaged through it until he triumphantly retrieved a little rubber ball. "Here."

 

It felt good, to wring the life out of the thing until Lance's hands ached. "...thanks."

 

They headed to their classroom, only to hear a muffled din traveling down the hall.

 

When Allura opened the door it was to find their classmates still-dressed in their casual clothes and gawking at Shiro and Coran, whom were deeply-engrossed in a shouting match.

 

"What's going on?" Pidge asked, standing on tiptoe to admire the spectacle. "Oh no. Mommy, Daddy, it makes me sad when you fight."

 

"-easily one of the top five promising candidates for Angeline!" Coran cried, clasping his hands together imploringly. "This might all just be a horrible misunderstanding and we'll clear it up in a day or two-"

 

"Angeline?!  _ Misunderstanding _ ? Forget  _ a starring role _ , Coran! She's no longer welcome within  _ fifty feet _ of this academy!"

 

"Whatever happened to second chances, Shiro? She's been a consistently well-behaving girl until now. Teenagers fall off the wagon now and again, it's to be  _ expected _ , and we can at least lessen her punishment to a suspension-"

 

"No. You wouldn't be saying that if you'd heard, if you had the police show up at your door! Silvio and Angeline need to set our standards, and no one can follow if they can't lead!"

 

Shiro suddenly seemed to take notice of the class keenly listening in, many of whom were rapid-fire texting on his phone. He impatiently gestured for Coran to follow him out of the room, and the two quickly strode out. The muffled arguing burst out immediately again in the hall, slowly fading in the distance.

 

"What's wrong with Shiro? And why is everyone on their phones?" Pidge asked, sauntering over to a sandy-haired classmate named Rico. "Did the president get shot?"

 

Rico rolled his eyes. "Yes, Pidge. The president has been assassinated."

 

"Hooray!" cried Pidge, shooting her fist in the air and leaping labout ike a delighted leprechaun in her green leotard. "I knew all those Hail Mary's I bullshat my way through at school weren't for nothing."

 

Rico immediately scooted closer to Allura as if Pidge were an escaped lunatic. Which Lance supposed wasn't entirely a bad guess. "...uh, the president is still alive, girl."

 

"Fuck you, fuckaroo," spat Pidge, victory dance ending with a middle finger flip. "You're a sick mess, screwing with a girl's heart like that. I hope you get cancer."

 

"It's lucky you know ballet, because when you die and go to hell, you'll be dancing with the Dark One. He will make you his bride," Lance mocked, ruffling Pidge's hair. Far from looking afraid, Pidge suddenly preened like a sleek and well-fed cat.

 

"Fuck that. In place of a dark lord, hell shall have a queen," Pidge paraphrased, and Lance suddenly had the mental image of Pidge's eyes floating above Mount Doom, albeit eyes covered by her enormous spectacles. "And she does not share power. Satan can join my harem when I seize control in a hostile takeover."

 

"Dare I ask who's in your hellish harem?" Hunk pondered, cringing with Pidge threw back her head and cackled maniacally.

 

"Lord Byron, Walt Disney, John F. Kennedy, Gandhi...Satan will be number five. So that bitch better know his place. If I wake up one night and find Satan all up on my ladydick, I'll be all, 'Satan, y'all best be patient and get off my dick before I beat you harder than your mom did your dad.'"

 

"...uh." Allura massaged her temples. "So...Rico, what's up with Shiro and Coran, exactly?"

 

Rico hesitated. Lance wondered with a jolt if word of last night's date fiasco had somewhat made its way back to Shiro. Shiro had mentioned the  _ police _ , so Nyma could've very-well been in league with the culprit after all...

 

"It's Nyma. Shiro kicked her out this morning."

 

The news shot electricity through Lance's every nerve.  _ No!" _ He gasped, word stepping on Rico's period. "How?  _ Why?" _

 

"There might be a God after all!" Pidge exclaiming sunnily, clasping her hands and turning her eyes toward the ceiling. "That just makes me feel so cozy inside. It really does."

 

"But what happened?" Hunk asked dumb-foundedly. "Did, uh...something...uh..."  _ Shut up, shut up, shut up, _ Lance begged inwardly as Hunk clearly struggled to say something non-incriminating. "...uh...happen to....um....happen...last night?"

 

"I don't even know where to start," said Rico honestly, gesturing helplessly toward Ezor, whom was flocked by what looked like all the ballerinas in their class. Everyone was firing what sounded like questions in a near-unintelligible blur like an excited paparazzi crew. “Well...everyone’s guessing that Ezor was the one who turned Nyma in.”

 

“You mean Ezor pulled the fire alarm?” asked Hunk in surprise, scrutinizing Ezor carefully. “She looks kind of freaked out, don’t you think?” 

 

Rico started. “Fire alarm? I didn’t hear anything about _ that _ . What’s that about?” 

 

“Nothing!” Lance answered brightly. He’d read somewhere that persisted smiling alone could make endorphins register more-fully in the brain. Lance thought it just made his face hurt. “What actually happened?”

 

“Hold on to your jaws, because they’re about to hit the floor,” Rico advised solemnly, but there was no belying the mischievous twinkle in his eye. He seemed more than happy to be the bearer of bad news. 

 

~o*oOo*o~

 

_ Forty-eight hours behind present time _

 

Altea’s mall, Keith Kogane thought, was vaguely depressing; more than a few department stores like Belk’s and JC Penney were gated off now. Two of the others that remained open had store liquidation signs reading  _ Everything Must Go _ . It certainly wasn’t as if Keith cared; he bought all his clothes online on the rare occasion he was inclined to purchase anything not-related to ballet. And whatever Iverson tried or threatened, he couldn’t withhold Keith’s monthly stipend, not when Keith’s sympathetic lawyer wired the money to the account Iverson didn’t strictly need know about. 

 

Keith checked his phone again from where he sat in the food court, stuffed with people too happy to buy from overpriced vendors. Twelve o’clock. An innocuous time of day. He idly scrolled through hard-won pictures he’d acquired the night before, and came to a stop at his video evidence. Yes, this would go to Shiro, once he created a dummy Gmail account. But still, he needed  _ more. _

 

He looked down at his Religious Ed workbook, at the Spanish Inquisition passage he’d probably reread three or four times. Keith had received the strange order to bring a school book as well as to wear shades and a baseball cap of some kind today. He’d wordlessly obeyed, although the expensive Red Sox cap he’d grabbed from the first athletic store he could find left him feeling incredibly stupid. He checked his phone again, fingertips drumming the table.

 

If Jasper had led Keith on, well, it wouldn’t be terribly hard to find out where Jasper lived, considering Keith had an effortless accessibility to St. Vitus’s database that disconcerted even him. Iverson didn’t exactly recreate the Da Vinci code when it came to strengthening school security-the passwords on his school office desktop were exactly the same as his home computer’s. Which were written on sticky notes on the wall. No, Jasper would not go unpunished if he’d lied. 

 

“Ahem.” 

 

He looked up into the green eyes of a squat man with a questionable tan and five o’clock shadow. “I take it you’re K?” 

 

"You're late." Keith said curtly, dark brown eyes appraising. 

 

"You're younger than most of my clientele," pointed out the man as he awkwardly squeezed himself into a sticky plastic chair opposite Keith. "You guys keep shrinking, though. At least it ain't likely that the fuzz would put a wire on you. Yer mama would sue ‘em for everythin’ they got.” He pulled out an English textbook from his computer bag, placing it on the table. “Don’t mind the stupid old textbooks. Just a prop-looks like I’m tutorin’ you.” He leaned forward, resting his chin on interlaced fingers. "So, what can old Beezer do for you today?"

 

Keith stared unblinkingly at him. Beezer frowned.

 

"C'mon. It ain't easy getting hold of us-"

 

"There's a specific tape I was hoping you could provide me with."

 

Beeto snorted. "'Specific' is what people come to me for, boy. Not a lot of people would bother going this far for something you can grab via Google Images. So, what is it?" 

 

Keith sat back in his seat, biting his lip and contemplating the orange lilies in the planter beside him. "No need to be shy." Beezer encouraged with a sly smile. "Believe you me, there are no judgments. You want to watch someone get it on with an animal, a kid, or a corpse-" Keith looked positively revolted. "-not my cup of tea, but I'm a distributor, nothing more.”

 

Keith flicked through his phone album, wordlessly showing the video where Nyma floated in like a graceful ghost. A tiny frown creased Beezer’s brow. "I want a video featuring this girl. I believe you’re familiar with her?” It didn’t sound like a question. 

 

"....yeah,” Beezer sighed, flopping back in his seat and throwing an arm atop his chair. "You could say we've met."

 

"I've heard she made a sex tape with another man. And I'd like you to give me a copy."

 

"Ah." Beezer blinked, looking embarrassed for the first time. "That, uh-" He visibly struggled. "Look, kid, it's complicated. You don't want that lame-ass, pussy video anyway. I'm your friendly neighborhood Girl Scout, here to hook you up with whatever poison you'd like. You could do a lot better.”

 

"So there is a video?" Keith asked eagerly, and Beezer groaned, cussing under his breath. "What can you tell me about it?"

 

Beezer suddenly became very interested in his surroundings. "You know, I wonder why this dump’s still operational. Ain't like anyone actually shop in a mall no more. I bet half the folks here are in for shady deals, considerin' they fit the bill of a lot of my coworkers.'"

 

“I need you to tell me more about the tape. I already sent you a down payment.

 

"Well, now, ain't you persistent." Beezer huffed. “Well, that you did. Okay, then...

 

"So, a buddy of mine in this business had this girl. And you can tell she damn  _ fine." _ He gestured appreciatively at Keith’s phone, making obscene kissy noises. “Itty bitty, big titty ballerina. He convinced her to make a video with him-they actually shot it at the girl's ballet studio during after hours. Oh, c’mon, you wanted to hear about it. If you’re gonna puke, you better do it in that can over there. Nothing  _ hardcore _ , though my guy's technically too old for her. She told him to keep the film hush-hush, as something just between them. But my buddy can be a fucking  _ idiot _ ."

 

“What happened?” 

 

"I know I can count on Rolo for anything. But he likes to think he's a huge bigshot, so he decided to show off the tape to his main guys just for shits and giggles. Well, I think he did because he was all offended none of us thought someone with a pirate leg-one of his is fake- could’ve this chick he kept showin’ us on Facebook. One of our buddies decided to get fresh with Nyma. That girl was  _ pissed _ ." Beezer let out a dry laugh and shook his head. "Understatement of the freaking year. Rolo told her it was only 'cause he thought she were that beautiful. But they got into a lot of hissy fights and eventually Rolo started flirting with some porn star named Trusty Busty to get back at her. They broke up pretty fast after that.

 

"I think he musta actually liked that girl Nyma though." Beezer seemed surprised at his own admission. "Even when they split, Rolo didn’t use that tape to get back at her like a lotta guys might’ve. He made us swear to not sell or share that tape of him and her with nobody. Mighta been just to cover his own ass 'cause he's older than her and implicated in the film, but he looked pretty beat-up when Nyma blocked his number. Still does. Hey, you gotta light?” 

 

“First of all, I don’t smoke, secondly, I’m not old enough even if I want to, and third, this is a mall. You can’t smoke here.”

 

“So, smoking bad, but buyin’ illegal goodies golden? You got a weird set of ethics, kid. I told Rolo he just needed to get back in the game and get himself some pussy, but he's just been mopey. So, we set him up for dinner later tonight with one of our film stars who expressed some interest in Rolo. I guess some ladies dig pirates. But never mind that. How’d ya find out about this tape, anyway? I'm guessing that if you found out about this one of our ‘associates’-” He made finger quips. “-couldn't keep their trap shut. Christ." 

 

“Are you actually upset over that?”

 

“Hell yeah. When you’re in my line of work, confidentiality is fucking everything. I’m Italian. I get to say to use stereotypes ‘cause I  _ am _ Italian. You agree to keep your trap shut, you fucking keep it glued. So, who told you?” 

 

“One of your ‘buddies’ has a little brother who acts for his big brother’s middleman at school.” Beezer out a long, quiet hum. “And who thinks it’s smart to do all their transactions on the school chapel, which is essentially where I take a nap in the pews every study hall. Or  _ try _ to, anyway-he and his clientele’s voices echo in there. I was able to figure out how to contact you guys from I’ve overheard.”

 

“Jesus H. Christ,  _ that’s _ embarrassing. Still, I gotta say I appreciate the symbolic irony in what has to be a pretty decent business goin’ down at a Catholic school. I think I have an idea who the morons are. Should split their heads open, even if they bring in some pretty decent revenue. But…” Beezer held up his hands helplessly. “You see the situation I'm in, kid. I can't rat out no buddy. I’d feel weird about it.”

 

Keith handed Beezer his workbook, who took it bemusedly. “There’s a bookmarked page in there. You might want to check it out.” 

 

“Religious Ed? You tryin’ to convert me, kid?” Beezer opened the workbook, stiffening as a folded bundle of bills slid out. He immediately tucked it back in, green eyes hurriedly scanning the cafeteria. “Gotta say you don’t make a bad case. You’d make a pretty decent missionary with your sales pitch. Still…”

 

Beezer withdrew a marker from his pocket, and sedulously pulled a single bill from the book. He hummed again, clearly suspicious as he drew an iodine line on the $100 bill. No discoloration. He tucked the first note back and withdrew another, making another slash mark. Nothing appeared. Eyebrows shooting up his disappearing hairline, he tucked the second note back and pulled out the third, fourth, and fifth. Keith crossed his arms. 

 

"How do you feel about it now?"

 

"I'm feelin' you must really be interested in this girl," said Beezer, thumb tracing the workbook spine as if it were a small animal. Keith pulled it back. "And I feel you gotta full hand of aces on your hands, joker. Hey, I know kids are a lot more socially-awkward then they used to be, but is it that hard to ask her out on a date? She's single now, you realize."

 

"The tape's secrecy was compromised a long time ago." Keith pointed out, keenly noticing Beezer’s ogling. "It wasn't all that hard to find you and get you to confirm its authenticity. So, your keeping your mouth shut at this point is a little redundant. Jasper bragged about the tape to a  _ lot _ of guys.” 

 

“Did they get copies from him?”

 

_ No. Jasper said he couldn’t share that particular one, only that his brother told him it existed. And no one believed him, because there was no proof. _ “From what I understand, Jasper already sold loads of copies. So I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole school knows already. I don’t listen to gossip.” 

 

"You just happen to overhear some pretty dubious deals goin’ down. Fucking Jasper and fucking Janka. I knew it. Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag anyway. Hm. Beetoo wouldn't mind a new pair of shoes.” He pulled his laptop case on his lap. 

 

"I don’t normally make it my business to ask customers questions, but--”

 

"Then don’t.” Keith said brusquely. “I just want the tape.” 

 

"Ain’t you a peach. I guess a future ivy-leaguer probably ain't interested in jeopardizing his rep right before college admissions. Here’s just a disclaimer, boy: It gets out to the wrong people you have that film, forget just gettin’  _ expelled _ , ‘cause you’d be in enough hot water to cook a lobster. And you’d be just as fucked. Even if Nyma ain’t no kid, she’s sixteen and that’s enough for Uncle Sam to call this kiddy porn. Your mommy and daddy might not wanna foot the bill for your college or your bail no more after that.”

 

"Not that it's any of your business, but I don't have...never mind."

 

"Yeah? Well, tough luck, I ain’t givin’ you a discount." said Beezer dismissively, though his expression softened by a hair. "Y’know, I don't understand you folks. People who’ll pay out the ear just to avoid hearin' the word  _ 'no.' _ But, you keep a roof over my head and new shoes on my feet, so I say bygones.

 

"Needless to say, I'm not tapping into the public network like a dumbass." Beezer explained, retrieving his laptop and typing furiously. "Thankfully I don’t need no internet to access my library. I change computers every few weeks like my phones, but the content on this computer would literally  _ warp _ your pretty little mind. Surprise this machine hasn’t overloaded already.” 

 

Keith remained a poker faced statue. Beezer looked up for the briefest of seconds before going back to his work, shrugging.

 

"Here’s a tip: You might wanna try investin' some dough into gettin' you a smile. Then maybe girls'll notice you more and you won’t have to call on old Beezer to get some action." 

 

Keith just bowed his head. 

 

"I don't know what yer trouble is and I don't care to, but if you're a man of any kind and you want someone who ain't just a walking blowup doll, keep in mind most men got at least  _ one _ who got away. Even in my field of work. I ain’t exactly a moral authority and I don’t claim to be, but you strike me as a bright kid, so you best do whatever the  _ fuck _ you gotta do to make that person yours. You hear?”

 

Keith took a sip of his now watered-down soda. "About that. I'm taking on a scorched-earth policy." 

 

"Atta boy. Now, you want to talk substance to uh, grease the wheels a little bit, I’ll hook you up. In the meantime…” Beezer took a file drive from his bag and slid it inside a slot. “Here’s something to grease you up, if you get what I’m sayin’. I wouldn’t exactly recommend watchin’ this in public."

 

“Word of honor this is the real thing?” The poisonous acrimony positively bleeding in Keith’s words couldn’t have served as a more potent warning.

 

“I’m hurt. Look, we make it a point to make clients happy so that they keep comin’ back, see? Wouldn’t do no good we didn’t deliver what we promised. Our contact methods change a lot, but if Jasper’s flappin’ his jaw, shouldn’t be too hard to stay updated. You can always request to speak to my boss. Yes, I’m fucking serious. We basically have a customer service line. And believe you me, my boss ain’t a bad guy, but he’s not exactly a good man, either. Someone talks shit about our transaction that don’t have nothing to do about how expensive it was, you better fucking believe I’m going to hear about it. And the consequences are a whole lot uglier than my not winning Employee of the Month. Ah. Here we go.” 

 

He pushed the filedrive over to Keith, who slowly picked it up with his thumb and index finger. However much he had wanted this, handling the actual product was about as appealing as holding a rotting fish. Beezer took Keith’s workbook and tucked it into his bag with his laptop, neatly closing it again with a  _ snap _ . 

 

"Pleasure doing business with you,” he said with a polite nod and a wink. And so Beezer walked away whistling. Taking off his hat and leaving it on the table, Keith tucked the filedrive in his pocket, and got up to look at the water fountain bubbling not far off. The sound of water rushed soothingly over overheating nerves. 

 

It slowly dawned on him that Beezer had taken his religion work along with his surplus pay. That would make an interesting excuse:  _ Sorry, Sister Hira, but a gangster who was probably the nicest person I’ve met in a long time took my workbook _ . Just as well that religious ed was a course Keith by now largely-tuned out. However politically-unbiased Sister Hira claimed to be, if you blamed liberals and radical feminists for all the world’s problems on your exams you were bound to pass. 

 

The idea of actually watching the video was grotesque, as Keith never made a point to look at porn before, particularly straight porn featuring a girl he’d dearly like to drown in this fountain. But Keith had no choice but to verify before making his move, though something about Beezer in that small exchange struck him as genuine. More so than a lot of the ballet dancers and nuns he knew. Or most of the people Keith had ever known, for that matter. 

He flung his change from that morning’s hat purchase into the water. He would anonymously send copies of his videos to the police and Shiro no later than tonight. And Keith would look up Nyma’s home address in Iverson’s archives and send it along with the footage in case the police were  _ very  _ interested to question the co-star of that little movie. Why not? 

 

Keith headed towards the stairs, file drive hot in his fist. He conceded there was no way of sending this material to the authorities without also implicating Rolo. Keith came to a stop, shivering in the tomb-blast of arctic air-conditioning.

 

Maybe the footage of Nyma smoking was enough. But the police would likely let her off with a small fine, and even if Shiro kicked her out of the academy, she could very well pretend to date Lance in earnest outside ballet. Keith felt something hot ooze down his chin. He wiped it away and saw red.

 

If Catholic school had taught Keith anything other than the importance of loving humility before a vengeful sadist was that nuns very-often went into detail with the torture martyrs and heathens alike endured. Sometimes that entailed the victim being dangled upside down and sawed between the legs into the midsection, or being shred through the knee splitter, or introduced to the head-crusher, devices that needed no explanation save for why so-called devout humans were so bent on creating a hell on earth. 

 

Keith actually bared his teeth. A passing mother pushing a stroller glanced over at him, and then considerably lengthened her stride.

 

But just  _ thinking _ of Nyma made bringing these vintage methods back into fashion so attractive. There was something horrifically satisfying in imagining someone having their innards cooked tied to stakes. Nyma was soaked in gasoline, every part of her insidious and wrong and sneaking and stealing and if Keith threw the smallest match of her feet (head, he liked to think of her burning first at the head) she’d go up in flames. If Rolo happened to be beside her when it happened and he burned his bones black, well….vindictive as he’d felt, as much hopeless and masochistic desire as he’d felt, Keith couldn’t finish the thought. Just doing would be easier. 

 

Speaking of fire….

 

He hurried down the steps for the exit. He probably wouldn’t have his evidence prepared in time to stop Nyma and Lance’s date in a few hours. Still, there was time, there would be time, to at least prevent anything from escalating. And he thought he had a sneaking suspicion  _ how  _ to.

 

A flash of color caught his attention and he looked over his shoulder. Oh. There was a small nursery here. That was unprecedented. Were the flowers here fake? He touched a small orchid plant stationed near the entry. Real. 

 

He went in, tongue-tied and shy when one of the clerks greeted him. He circled past tomato plants, hanging baskets, several rows little pots, plastic cartons filled with flowers with stems bobbing under the weight of their blooms.

 

Though Keith would voluntarily endure the knee-splitter than tell anyone, he very much liked the audio-book his English class played last year.  _ The Language of Flowers. A _ bout a disconnected, disenchanted young woman who used flowers in lieu of words to communicate, because...well…

 

Well. It made attending more regularly a bit more worthwhile.

 

He scooped up a small pot of red blooms, and tried to remember what they were supposed to symbolize. Scarlet Geraniums meant...yes, that would do. He silently made his way to the register.  


 

At least they’d have this, if nothing more.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, stuff happened. I apologize for this chapter being so messy. I honest-to-goodness just wanted to get something posted because I just kept fussing with what I had. Perfection is the enemy of (hopefully) passable.
> 
> We didn't actually get any ballet scenes in this chapter (though there will be next time.) Again, I really needed to get this posted; it was a good way of getting out some of my bad feelings lately. 
> 
> To answer a recurring question: Yes, Lance is semi-autobiographical. As a result, some of the autistic traits he exemplifies in the story might be more traditionally-associated with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) girls. Still, what autism means is a little different for everyone! For me, it means that I can communicate with you better if you give me a keyboard. (A visual helps me organize what I’d like to say to you without stammering. As someone with ADHD (it is frequently comorbid with autism) as well, text helps me maintain a line of thought! 
> 
> Please review. ^_^


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